Requiem for a Lonely Heart
by Reveria
Summary: Prague, 1900. Four years after Christine broke his heart, Erik is struggling on alone.
1. Prologue

This story is based on both Susan Kay's book (Erik's early youth and travelling years) and Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical (the in-between and the rest). I'm saying based because I changed the dates (most importantly, the Erik/Christine drama takes place in 1896, when the chandelier in the Parisian opera did indeed fall) and left out some of Susan Kay's ideas, or used them in a different way. Those who have read the book might realize this, the others can just go with the flow, heh. There's also a little Leroux in it (literally, haha).

**Title:** Requiem for a lonely heart

**Written by:** Jennifer, aka Reveria

**Rated:** PG-13, although a few chapters may be rated higher. I'll put a warning if that's the case.

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately I don't own Erik. Gaston Leroux "invented" him and Susan Kay explored him, and I'm just picking up where Andrew Lloyd Webber left off. All original characters, however, belong to me.

**Summary:**_Every endless night is followed by a dawning day..._  
Prague, 1900. Four years after Christine broke his heart, Erik is struggling on alone. When he saves a mysterious young woman from being violated, the course of his life changes dramatically. Unable to stay but unwilling to go, Erik finds himself in the middle of an emotional adventure that may lead to happiness after all...

Now, enough bla bla. Abandon thought and let the dream descend!

Prologue - Erik's review

_**What am I to do with all this silence?  
Shy away, shy away, phantom  
Run away, terrified child**_

I once promised myself never to look back, because I believed that what is done is done. I was of the opinion that the present, this brief, precious moment in-between the unchangeable and the unknown, would suffer if one kept glancing backwards as though it would bring a change. I was convinced that contemplating every thought that ever crossed your mind, every word your lips ever spoke, and every action ever taken by you was bound to eventually leave you trapped in the slippery net of regret. And regret has never worked in any other way but bring a man to his knees.

Four years had passed since I'd left Paris, and yet it often felt a lot longer than that. Time weighs heavily on your heart when you've got too much of it, and sometimes the seconds would pass so slowly that they seemed to become tangible. I almost fell for the illusion that if I reached out for those tiny fractions of eternity, they would take form against my gloved palm and eternally remind me that they were unstoppable, that they would keep coming to tease, tempt and torment me as I sat in the dark, silently begging them to move faster. I could see their endlessness when I closed my eyes, and I felt helpless either way. I suppose that this is the reason I reluctantly chose to be passive and patient instead of attempting to take a hold of them. Time can stand still or it can pass you by within a moment, but it does this solely as it wishes. Sometimes the more you want something, the less likely it is that you will get it. You cannot influence the ways of the world, although there used to be a time when I was foolish enough to believe I could alter and manipulate everything to my liking if only I was persistent enough.

Paris, however, had taught me a painful lesson, and when my wounds finally started to heal, I did all I could to prevent a setback of my reconvalescence. But no-one had prepared me for the kind of wounds that aren't of the flesh but of the soul. You might find that strange because hatred, discrimination and persecution have always been part of my life. The difference to a heartache, however, is that I had learned to cope with the former. It is easy to hate those who are hostile towards you, to match their cruelty and ignorance. But a heartache... the bittersweetness of it tears you apart. Like a crippled man who wants to run, I wanted to hate, but couldn't. I was dying to cry tears that just wouldn't come, feeling agonisingly energetic and numb at the very same time. For months, I struggled like a madman, then I realised that pain was a sign that I was still alive – something I hadn't thought possible – and gave up fighting it. Choosing pain over apathy was the safest thing for me to do. I dreaded drifting back into this state between worlds, where nothing has form, and yet the terror of burning in hell for what I've done is as real as it could have been. There never existed a God in the world I lived in, at least not for me. But there certainly was a hell, and even though I was very aware that I had done too many wrongs to count, I did _not_feel like I belonged there. The world and its cruelties had made me who I'd become, and I was _not_ going to take the blame for that.

The reason I could not hate Christine was that deep down I understood. I didn't want to, it was something my heart had done without consulting me first. The moment she kissed me was the moment I realised that there is a difference between envy and jealousy. Jealousy is the terrible fear of losing someone you truly and deeply care for. It is a negative form of compassion, and therefore it's natural and just. But an envious person is merely obsessed with gaining possession and control of someone who never belonged to him in the first place. Envy is degrading and selfish. Once upon a time I was jealous of Raoul because the beautiful young woman I had discovered, transformed and cared for decided to share her affection with someone other than me. I began to envy him when it became clear that she would give her heart only to him, that the compassion and pity she felt for her disfigured Angel of Music could not compete with her desire for true love. I envied Raoul because he didn't refuse the gift of her heart, as I'd secretly hoped he would.

When Christine kissed me, I had to make a choice. I could either make two young lovers' lives a living nightmare by tearing apart two hearts that fate had tied together long before I attempted to separate them. Or I could set them free and be miserable myself. The spiteful part of me wanted to make them suffer, to make them feel what it was like to be tormented by a thirst that cannot be quenched. And yet I found myself unable to deny them what I longed for so desperately. I hated to admit it, but always taking an eye for an eye would only make the world end up blind. I do not wish the agony of a broken heart upon anyone, not even my worst enemy. Well, with possibly a few exceptions. But love is a bird that needs to fly, or she will not survive. I could not bear the thought of losing Christine, but forcing her to be unhappy would have been even worse. And so I let them go.

Christine broke my heart and thereby proved that I had one, whether I wanted to acknowledge that or not. By choosing Raoul, she ripped it right out of my chest, leaving it up to me to either mend it or find a way to live without it.

Here comes the moment when I have to change my opinion about the past. Only those who know about their mistakes and the reasons for making them can be certain to never repeat them in the future.

I moved on and learned to be lonely. With time, bitterness and indifference helped me to get by. Darkness once more became my trustworthy companion, and I was sure I would never feel _anything_ again, ever.

Sed errare hominum est.

**song credit** A Stranger, by A Perfect Circle

**Sed errare hominum est** (Latin) – It is, however, human to be mistaken.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One - A chance encounter

_**I know not how she found me  
For in darkness I was walking  
And destruction lay around me  
From a fight I could not win **_

It all began on a chilly, moonless night at the beginning of March. Prague was enveloped in thick, tenebrous shadows that hasted around the ancient city like a pride of black panthers on the hunt, hushing every sound that could possibly break the eerie silence. The Vltava river, a filigrane silver line that gently sloped through the vast valley in-between the nine surrounding hills, lay still beneath the cloudy sky, mirroring the smother that seemed to be dangling just above my head. Something was about to happen, this much was sure.

I had been out and about in the city as usual, frequenting a few places I had grown quite fond of during the last four years. Every now and then I was rather amazed at how much of a people person I had become compared to how I used to live my life in Paris. It was risky business that I was doing, I knew that, but there was something about Prague that was alluring, a kind of atmosphere that just wouldn't allow me to spend all my days and nights alone inside my home. Even though the city had been founded nearly nine hundred years later than the French capital, it possessed an ancient flair, and its daytime radiance and liveliness turned into a consuming dark glamour as soon as the night fell. The many illuminated bridges across the Vltava river, the bizarrely beautiful silhouettes of buildings from half a dozen different epochs that reached for the sky, the peaceful clash of many different nationalities – Czechs, Germans, Hungarians, Slovaks - it was fascinating, to say the least.

The sheer abundance of the arts really drew me in like a moth to the flame. Prague was like a hothouse for virtuosity of all kinds. Three poetry circles were avidly competing with one another frequently, producing brilliant works each and every week. Poetry is the right words in the perfect order, and not seldomly I had to acknowledge that I couldn't have done it better. Everyone else was equally stunned, so not a soul would pay attention to a man dressed all in black, sitting quietly in the shadows of the back row. And even if a head did turn every now and then, my sight was dealt with with a vague nod in my direction, then a careless shrug. This vivacious city had seen more peculiar creatures than a man wearing a mask. I could easily pass as an eccentric artist or aristocrat here.

Also, the philharmonic was a pleasure to listen to, especially when they played a piece I had secretly slipped into the director's office after completion. The first time I did that, I expected an utter disappointment. After all, the dillettante orchestra of the Parisian opera had failed miserably at performing my opera, Don Juan Triumphant. But I was in for a pleasant surprise, and so I paid a visit everytime the announcements in the papers listed a work by the "mysterious Erik Le Mônfaté". Nadir had come up with this anagram of "le fantôme" when I sold my house. Originally, I had built it as my new home, but by the time it was finished it bored me so much that I just couldn't stand it anymore, and therefore decided to get rid of it. My dear friend served as a trustworthy messenger between potential customers and me, and the building eventually went to a distant cousin of the Austrian emperor, who used it as a summer resicence. Needless to say he was willing to pay a great amount of money for the masterpiece I had created. It was perfect timing indeed, because the riches I had brought with me from France had been about to run dry due to my dissolute lifestyle.

My skills made quite an impression, because Nadir was soon contacted by various other noblemen who were interested in having a residence built by the same architect of the "Royal Austrian Villa", as it was then called. At first I was very reluctant to do custom work for snobbish aristocrats whose only reason for taking an interest in architecture was to show off their wealth. But once again Nadir changed my mind. I will never forget the look on his face when he found out I had been haunting the Opera Populaire for many years since my return from Persia. It was an indescribable mixture of disbelief, shock and utter disappointment.

"So this is what I've spent five years in prison for?" he'd asked bitterly. "Five years of my life so you become some kind of a ridiculous ghost that scares hysteric ballet corps girls?"

It only occurred to me then that he'd set me free so I could continue with what I'd been doing in Tehran, namely constructing buildings that would still be there after hundreds of years, buildings that would leave people in awe. The Shah had wanted to kill me because he was afraid I would create equally impressive masterpieces for anyone else than him, and by retreating to my lair for most of the time I had unintentionally given in to his will. Suddenly I felt very ashamed for my pitiful existence, and so I tried to look at the requests in a different way. Instead of working for ignorant fools, I told myself I would unleash my creativity and turn each and every villa into a momument of my proficiency. I'd only let them choose as much as the style and colours, then demand absolute freedom to do as I wished. And of course I would never meet them. Nadir made all the necessary arrangements. I didn't expect it to work, but it did, and within just about three years, I had become a minor phenomenon. Erik Le Mônfaté, the unseen genius. I almost found it funny.

So on this one night, I was once more very pleased with the philharmonic, whose nearly perfect rendition of my latest work had entertained me greatly. I was still humming the tune to myself as I made my way home, when suddenly a cool breeze carried a muffled yelp past my ears. I stopped immediately, listening, trying to figure out where it had come from. Not that I usually cared about other people's business, but I could tell that someone was in danger. A woman, to be more specific. Several moments of silence passed, then I heard another cry, followed by a man's voice uttering a threat. Spinning around, I rushed off into the direction where it had come from, not making a sound as I blended in with the shadows.

I could hear their contemptuous, evil laughter before I actually saw the three youths. Then the sound of cloth being ripped reached my ears. They had cornered a young woman in a dark alley, and I instantly knew what they were up to. The girl was struggling, trying to get away, but it was all in vain. I held my breath as I watched a fist collide with her face, then another as she attempted to call for help again. Within a moment, I felt the anger flare inside me. Preying on the weak, especially when the victim was outnumbered, was cruel, even in my eyes. There is nothing glorious about a victory over someone who's beneath you. It's solely about power, and whereas power itself was something I thrived on, I had always chosen someone of my size. I despised those who picked the ones who were helpless.

The Punjab lasso strangled the first of the three before he even knew what was happening to him. A wave of satisfaction washed over me as I watched his eyes widen, then he gasped for air. I gave the rope a downward yank, and the boy fell to the ground as the colour of his face changed from white to purple. He tried to scream, but another hard pull cut his air supply off nearly completely.

"Look who's the victim now," I said quietly, letting the wind carry my words over to his two friends as a ghostlike whisper. They had taken several steps away from the girl, standing back to back as they looked around fearfully, trying to detect the location of their attacker.

"If you want him to live... " I tightened the rope around the youth's neck. He whimpered, silently begging his comrades to help him. "... run. Now."

They looked at one another, still somewhat hesitant about taking any action at all, be it running away or striking back. I sighed inwardly. I wasn't in the mood to kill tonight, but if I needed to go this far, so be it.

"As you wish."

One last pull, and the boy stopped moving. His now dead eyes stared up at the other two, who finally realised this wasn't a joke. They spun around and sped away into the night, not looking back once.

Stepping over the body, I emerged from the shadows, untying my lasso and putting it back into my pocket. Then I took a look at the girl. She was pressed up against the wall, hiding her face behind her hands, sobbing quietly. Her dress was torn, revealing a small, firm breast, and although I had no intention to do so, I stopped and stared. There had been plenty of statues of naked women in the Opera Populaire, but I had never seen one in flesh and blood. How could I? The very same caprice of fate which had condemned me to hide my face and wallow in blood had also denied me the joys of the flesh. Except for Christine's heroic sacrifice, no woman had ever dared, or wanted, to look at me. My desires were no different from any other man, and being unable to fulfill them was torment. Not even once had I approached a prostitute, because the mere thought of being refused by a woman who spreads her legs for money was too humiliating to bear. So now that it was all in front of me, I was mesmerized.

I took a few steps towards the girl, letting my eyes wander over her. She was unusually tall for a woman, being almost of the same height as I was. Her body was fragile and bony, there really was no excess fat, and she was dirty. Her skin was nearly as dark as her black hair, which was a wild, untamed chaos. She was still hiding her face, and in an impulsive moment of curiosity, I grabbed her wrists and forced her hands down.

I wasn't surprised that she avoided looking at me. Letting out a quiet whimper, she closed her eyes and lowered her head. For a second I felt the anger come back, but then I noticed she was shaking, and suddenly it dawned on me how frightened she probably was. I immediately let go of her, taking a step back and clearing my throat.

"Are you alright?" I asked, trying to sound polite. The moment the words slipped past my lips, I realized how stupid the question was. She had several deep scratches on her face, neck and shoulders, her lip was bleeding and her skin had cracked just above her left eyebrow from the punch she had taken. A thin trail of blood ran down her neck, trickling off her collarbone. This time the anger did come back indeed, and I felt a sudden urge to find those two other youths. How could they do this to to her?

"You're hurt," I now stated matter-of-factly, taking off my cape in the process. She winced when I put it around her, but she didn't object.

"Come," I commanded, taking her hand and pulling her after me as I started walking. She needed to be taken care of, but I couldn't do that. Not only couldn't I guarantee my primal instincts wouldn't take over. I also didn't happen to have any bandages or alcohol with me, and so we needed to go somewhere else. I began to feel a little unnerved when she stumbled after me hesitantly, her hands trailing along the walls of the houses framing the alley. What was she thinking I was going to do? If I wanted to hurt her, I would have done that by now.

I moved swiftly, heading for the quarter where Nadir lived. Looking back from time to time, I realized she still wasn't comfortable following me. She blindly reached out for walls, balustrades and other things around her as though she was... I wasn't sure what she was doing, but it looked as though she was trying to steady herself. She kept her eyes on the ground at all times, biting her lip nervously. Again, I felt a little irritated. I was just trying to help. Why did she have to make it so annoyingly difficult?

When we finally reached Nadir's house, I raised my hand and knocked on the door. A few moments passed, then I heard the soft sound of a metal bar being pushed aside before finding myself face to face with two very familiar dark eyes that were looking at me through the spy-hole.

"Erik? What are you doing here at this late hour?" Nadir asked tiredly.

"I need your help," I replied simply, gesturing for him to open the door.

He frowned, but then nodded. I heard him fiddling with the lock for a bit, then the door swung open. He was already dressed for bed, and he gingerly rubbed his eyes with one hand, holding a petroleum lamp in the other.

"What's –"

Then he saw the girl behind me, and his confusion increased visibly.

"She was attacked," I explained briefly before he got a chance to ask another question. "Someone needs to take care of her wounds."

"Come in."

He stepped aside and beckoned us to follow him. I looked over my shoulder, making sure the girl was still there, then stepped inside with her. I don't know why I somehow expected her to trip over the threshold, but she did. Clumsy people irritate me to no end. Makes me wonder how they manage to travel from cradle to crave without breaking their neck halfway along the way.

"Let me wake Olga," said Nadir as we stepped into the living-room. "Your friend looks like she could use a bath, too."

I nodded my head as I watched him go back upstairs, then pulled out a chair from the dining table.

"Sit down," I told her before I crossed the room and entered the kitchen to get myself a drink.

"What is your name?" I asked as I scanned the bottles of wine on the shelves, contemplating which one it would be. Over the years, Nadir had developed a passion for good wine, and I found myself browsing his selection with pleasure.

She didn't answer right away, and so I turned around, looking over at her. I felt a tiny surge of pity for the shivering bundle of nerves on that chair, but it only lasted for a little while. Annoyance quickly took over, and I snorted, folding my arms.

"I asked for your name," I repeated sharply. "Don't you think it would only be polite to answer me that question since I just saved you from being violated by three mindless youths?"

"Illina," she replied quietly after a pause. "It's Illina."

"Illina," I mumbled to myself as I turned back around. Illina. There was something about the sound of it that appealed to me right away. It was melodic, and it had a light, vivacious sound to it, like a droplet of cool water falling on the tip of your tongue in a hot summer. The combination of those six letters was absolutely perfect, a miniature masterpiece. You can tell a lot about someone just by their name. This name was beautiful and obviously rare, because I had never heard it before. I was intrigued.

I expected her to ask where we were, what was going to happen to her, but she stayed silent. Once I had chosen a bottle of wine – a rich, red Burgundy – I returned to the living-room. Nadir and Olga came down at the very same moment, taking another curious look at their guest.

"Oh, you poor thing! What happened to you?" Olga covered her mouth with her hands as she rushed over.

She was a short, slightly stout woman in her late thirties, with sandy blonde hair and grey eyes. A multitude of tiny freckles surrounded her button nose. Judged by society's standards, she wouldn't count as beautiful, but she was a friendly, gentle woman who possessed a rare, genuine warmth. Even I felt somewhat drawn to her simple, down-to-earth nature, and I understood why Nadir had married her. I knew he once promised himself never to wed again. Not after a terrible disease killed both his beloved wife Rookheeya and his son Reza. He'd hardly spoken of it in my presence, but I knew that their loss had left a painful hole in his soul that would stay there forever... unless someone found a way to fix it. I was very sure Olga was the only someone who could actually do that. She used to sell fruit on the market, that's how she met Nadir. Their friendship had developed slowly, but he eventually found himself unable to resist her kindness. Olga, too, had suffered the loss of her partner, and when they decided to share the pain, I knew they were going to take good care of one another. Her bump had grown considerably since the last time I saw her. I knew Nadir was proud.

"Come, let me tend to your wounds," Olga said softly, putting an arm around Illina's shoulders and leading her to the adjacent room. She closed the door behind her, leaving Nadir and me alone in the living-room.

"Who is she?" he asked once they had gone, keeping his voice down.

I shrugged vaguely, taking a sip of my drink. "I told you, she was attacked. I happened to be around, and when I saw she was hurt, I brought her here so Olga would take care of her."

Nadir nodded slowly as he sat down opposite me, thinking for a moment or two. Then he looked at me, and I frowned.

"What?"

"I'm just thinking that this is rather unlike you," he answered with a soft chuckle.

I snorted softly, shrugging once more. He was right, and yet he wasn't. Compassion was something rather alien for me, but that didn't mean I hadn't heard of it at one point. Somewhere deep inside I couldn't stand the thought of looking away when someone was in need. Maybe it was because once upon a time Madame Giry had saved me from the gypsies. I hated to admit it, but chances were I would still be trapped in this cage, in this living nightmare of a freak show at my expense, if she hadn't helped me to escape. She hid me, gave me food and clothes and simply took care of a frightened little boy she had paid to see. I never understood why the hideousness of my face had not mattered to her, but maybe this was why it was such a miracle. Perhaps this was why I felt something stir inside me at the sight of humans abusing those inferior to them. It was indeed possible that this soft spot for the innocent was the greatest gift I've ever received.

"How far along is Olga now?" I asked when the moment of contemplation had passed.

"Just over five months," Nadir replied. A smile overtook his features, and his eyes suddenly seemed very alive. "I never thought this would be possible... but I'm happy. Very, very happy. I think Rookheeya and Reza would have wanted this."

I nodded thoughtfully. The memory of Reza made me feel uneasy, and I tried to ignore the guilt that was pressing at the back of my thoughts. No matter how many times I tried to tell myself that I had done the right thing, that I had only eased his suffering, there was this quiet voice inside that wouldn't stop accusing me of having poisoned a five-year-old. He would have died, there was no doubt about that. And it had also been clear that his death would be painful. And yet, sometimes I wondered if I hadn't crossed a line I shouldn't have overstepped. Reza had adored me so much that Nadir had been afraid I was taking over his role as a father. Shortly before he died, Reza had almost been blind and unable to walk. And yet, whenever I entered the room, excitement and happiness would radiate from him, and he'd struggle to walk over and embrace me. I had held his lifeless body for what seemed like forever, hoping to a nonexistent God that Nadir would understand.

I don't know how much time had passed, but at one point the door opened, and Olga emerged from the other room, heading upstairs.

"That girl needs a new dress," she explained as Nadir gave her a questioning look. "Hers is torn apart. Can't let her wear those rags. I shall see if I have one that fits her."

And off she went. She returned a little while later, carrying a simple linen dress. It wasn't pretty, but it would do. I turned back to Nadir, about to ask him something, when suddenly Olga let out a surprised yelp.

"What is it?" Nadir rose, giving her a worried look.

"She's gone," Olga said, utterly surprised.

"She what?" I, too, got up. Crossing the room, I was with her in a second, pushing the door open further.

Indeed, the room was empty. There was a window opposite the door, and it was open. It wasn't hard to figure out that this was where she went. We looked at one another, unsure what to say or do. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts. Then I realised she had taken my cape with her... and, as I noticed when I absent-mindedly checked my breast pocket, my purse, too. For a moment or two, surprise, fascination and anger fought a fierce battle inside my brain. Nobody had ever stolen anything from me, not even any of the gypsy boys. And most certainly not without me noticing.

"Damn you," I muttered, grinding my teeth as I turned away. This certainly hadn't gone as planned.

* * *

**song credit:** Lady In Black, by Uriah Heep 


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two - ...and so we meet again

_**Be careful with my heart, you could break it  
Don't take my love for granted, things could change  
Sometimes I go insane  
I'll play the fool and you'll agree  
I'll never be the same without you here with me**_

The fact that I had been robbed bothered me greatly. Not only had this never happened before. Out of all the pickpockets on the streets, it had to be a _woman_ who did it. I found the entire incident so extremely outrageous that I was almost amused by it, and vice versa. Fascination as to how she managed to do that was followed by annoyance that I hadn't even noticed it, then disbelief, just before I'd become downright angry. This filthy little brat had betrayed me. I had saved her dignity, quite possibly even her life, and this was how she'd decided to repay me? I would not let her get away with that. She had something that was mine, and I wanted it back.

Unfortunately, tracking Illina down proved more difficult than I'd expected. I knew Prague like the breast pocket of my jacket, but the problem was, so did she. I searched the streets for six nights in a row, but she was nowhere to be seen. Again, I was irritated and transfixed at the very same time. I knew it was irrational to think so, but I began to wonder if she could sense me from afar and hide right under my nose. When I finally found her, I was almost relieved. This unlooked-for cat-and-mouse game had taken up way too much of my precious time.

The night I finally caught her, she was doing business in a run-down part of the historic city centre, leaning against a wall in such a lascivious manner as she waited for a potential customer that for a moment I completely forgot what I'd come here for. For some odd reason it hadn't occurred to me until that very moment that she was a prostitute. To me, she'd simply been a damsel in distress, so I was a little shocked at first. I suppose my mind just doesn't work that way. But it only lasted for a brief moment, then I shrugged it off. What did it matter anyway? I was mesmerized by her subtle eroticism, the way a single tendril cascaded down her bare shoulders, leading my gaze to her collarbone and further down, to a hint of cleavage.

Hiding in the shadows, I watched her for a while. The nightsky was cloudless, with a bright full moon that cast its pale light upon the city, allowing me to see her face properly for the first time. Forcing myself to tear my eyes away from where they shouldn't be, I studied her, intrigued by the fact that she looked very young and mature at the same time. Her features were regular and feminine, although not overly delicate. She had a heart-shaped face and nicely shaped lips that were neither extremely thin nor extravagantly full. Certainly, she did not possess the same angelic beauty as Christine, but there was something about her that appealed to me. I thought about it for a moment, concluding that she reminded me of one of those wild horses I'd once seen in southern France... skinny, somewhat blemished and dirty, but from the way she still stood there with a stubborn boldness I could tell she possessed a rare kind of inner strength and determination. Besides, exceptionally beautiful women cause wars of which I had already lost one. Needless to say I wasn't so keen to add another defeat to my list anytime soon.

Finally, my mind returned from its temporary absence, and I remembered why I was there. I hadn't come all this way to indulge in voyeuristic pleasures. There was something that needed to be taken care of, and so I waited for the perfect moment to strike. Judging by the look on her face, Illina's thoughts were miles away at this moment, so when she turned her back on me as she walked around in a small circle, I leaped forward without making a sound.

"And so we meet again," I whispered darkly in her ear, quickly taking a hold of both her wrists and forcing her hands behind her back as I pulled her to me, her back against my chest. My eyes narrowed slightly at the feel of her body against mine, primal instincts stirring inside me. I held her hands in a firm grip, my free hand snaking around her neck, tilting her head back far enough so she had to hold still if she wanted to breathe. She gasped, then froze, and I smiled to myself when I felt her pulse quicken slightly against my palm.

"Erik?" she asked hoarsely after a few moments of silence. Surprisingly enough, there was less fear in her voice than I'd expected. It seemed as though she had somehow known I'd come for her eventually.

"Good evening, Illina." I tightened my grip, making sure she understood that this was a threat, not a friendly hello. "I believe you have a few things that belong to me."

"I..." she opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off before she could go on.

"I want them back. The cape and the purse. Where are my things?"

This time it didn't take her as long to answer my question as it had taken her at Nadir's house. I smirked when I realised she was trying not to struggle against me, yet searching for a way to speak without sounding scared. She failed, of course. I had taken care of that by cornering her exactly like this.

"They're at my place," she replied, panting slightly.

"And is everything still as it was last week? Did you damage the cape? I hope not, it was an expensively tailored piece of clothing, my dear. And I assume you did not spend the money that wasn't yours, now did you?" Again, I increased the pressure on her wrists and neck, smiling grimly when I heard her gasp.

"The cape is fine," she gulped, and after a moment or two I decided to relent for now. I didn't mean to hurt her, she just needed to learn a lesson. So I loosened the grip slightly.

"But," she added hesitantly, "I... I did spend some of the money. Not much, I only bought some food. Please..."

Now she sounded very scared indeed, and I breathed against her neck coldly to make sure it stayed that way, at least for now.

"Please don't hurt me," she pleaded. "I'm sorry about what I did. I thought you were going to take me to the police. Besides, a girl's got to eat. Erik, please, I beg you..."

She shuddered softly in my grip as I bent down, tracing the curve of her neck with my gloved fingers. I felt my heartbeat quicken as I did so, desire boiling along my veins. The adrenaline of having someone at my mercy combined with the fact that this someone was quite an attractive young woman was impossible to ignore. Despite the rather cool night, she felt warm against me, and even though she was skinny her body was soft compared to mine.

"You owe me something, Illina," I growled. "And since I can't retrieve the money you spent, I'm going to take it back from you."

She held her breath for a moment, then nodded slowly. "As you wish."

I frowned softly when she agreed without further ado, somewhat sceptical that she was trying to fool me again. All those years of rejection weren't something I would easily forget.

"No tricks this time," I said sharply before I released her. She let out a sigh of relief, rubbing her wrists gingerly before turning halfway in my direction, reaching out and taking my hand in hers.

"Come with me."

Off we went, making our way through a labyrinth of narrow, dark alleys to wherever she lived. I was surprised to see that she moved swiftly and effortlessly this time, not stumbling once. Like the last time, her free hand trailed along the walls of surrounding buildings, but I didn't exactly care about it. It was probably just a habit. I followed her, taking mental notes about where we were going because I hadn't been to this part of the city very often. We passed one shabby house after the other, and every now and then I couldn't help but wonder how those buildings were still standing.

After a good fifteen minutes of walking during neither of us spoke a word, we reached an old back building near the city walls. Pieces of dirty laundry were hanging from thin ropes in the backyard, swaying with a cool breeze like the remnants of ghosts from a distant past. Crossing the yard, Illina opened a door and led me up a staircase that was littered with garbage, drunken men and more hussies, to a door on the second floor. I entered the small flat quickly, eager to get away from the disgusting things outside.

There were two rooms, one that looked like a kitchenette from what I could see from outside the half-closed door. The other one was her bedroom, an equally small chamber. Contrary to what the building had looked like from the outside, Illina's place was as tidy as it could be. It was still shabby, but it was decently clean.

"Come," she said softly, tugging at my sleeve as she made her way to the bedroom.

I followed her, although my steps had slowed down a little. My mind was working overtime, wondering if this was really happening. It had gone almost too smoothly, and when I realised she still hadn't really looked at me, I was suddenly afraid that she'd change her mind once she saw my face. Looking over my shoulder, I turned the key in the lock, then put it in my pocket. I _was_ going to get what I deserved.

A candle on the small bedside table filled the room with a dim, orange light. A light that softened everything, enveloping us both, as well as the surroundings, like a protective cloak. It felt somewhat surreal, but maybe that was exactly how it was supposed to be. I hated the fact that my heart rate increased with each passing second. I had imagined a situation like this so many times, had played it out in my mind over and over again, but never expecting it to become a reality one day. The desire I had fought and kept hidden inside for so long was finally going to be unleashed, and somehow I dreaded it as much as I was looking forward to it.

Then the realisation of my innocence hit me. I had travelled the world, I had done great things of both a good and a bad nature, but this was an entirely new realm to me. I had no idea what to do.

"Wait," I told Illina as she was about to get undressed.

"What is it?" She glanced over her shoulder, stopping in her movements.

I sighed inwardly, feeling terribly embarrassed. But what use was there to pretend? I closed the distance between us, wrapping my arms around her from behind and pulling her to me again. Gently this time, savouring the sensation of our closeness.

"There's something I have to tell you," I said as I wound a black curl around my index finger. Pausing for a moment, I took the time to let my lips descend upon her neck, tasting her skin.

"You've never been with a woman before, have you?" she asked quietly, and I felt how my heart skipped a beat.

"How do you know?" I questioned.

"What else would you want to tell me?" she chuckled softly, almost inaudibly. I realized she had a point. There only was one reason for hesitating, and she'd guessed absolutely right.

Covering my hands with her own, she took off my gloves and let them drop wherever they may, then raised them from her hips, bringing them upwards. My eyes widened when I realised where this was going, and I felt my body tense up against my will.

"Relax, Erik," she murmured quietly, her thumbs making small circles on the back of my hands. "I will show you. You don't have to be afraid."

My eyes fluttered shut as I buried my face in her hair, feeling my heart beat so fast and violently as though it wanted to break my chest. So close to all I desired... I couldn't help but shake. Illina waited for me patiently, and after a while I grew bolder. My fingers were still quivering as I undid the laces of her dress, but it got better with each second that passed. I stopped for a moment when they were all undone, bracing myself. Then I gave the dress a downward yank

* * *

**song credit:** Be Careful (Cuidado con mi corazon), by Ricky Martin and Madonna. 


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three - The harsh light of day

_**Well, it's a lonely road that you have chosen  
Morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore  
And it's a long time since your heart was frozen**_

Subconsciously, I knew the night was already over before I even opened my eyes. I was still wandering about in the wondrous borderland between dream and reality, enveloped in a peaceful and serene warmth that seemed to be all around me. Nothing is tangible or visible there, but everything is very simple. The darkness is not black, and the light is not a blazing white. Both of them belong to the same gentle nothingness that carries and guards you, shielding you from the atrocities of the world beyond closed eyes. I hadn't slept this well for what seemed like forever, and naturally I was reluctant to give up this state I was in, even though I knew I would have to eventually. But not now. Not yet. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillows.

Something stirred somewhere near me, and a few moments later I felt soft, silky skin brushing against my own, warm breath against my throat. I instinctively moved closer, driven by a pure insticts from deep inside. In the very back of my mind, my semi-conscious rational self wondered where it all came from and where I was, but I wasn't yet awake enough to care. It felt good, and therefore it just had to be right the way it was.

After a while, the faint chattering of birds outside reached my ears. I couldn't tell if it had been hours or just a few seconds since I first scratched at the surface of palpability, but I knew it had been a long time since I last heard it. Possibly a decade or two. And slowly but surely, a different kind of warmth made its presence known, tickling, teasing and eventually arousing my senses bit by bit. It was diffuse, it was bright and harsh, it was...

Sunlight.

My eyelids fluttered open as I panicked and sat up, too shocked to think clearly for a second or two. I hate the sun and her garish incandescence. It nabs and exposes me, it locks me in a cage where there's no escape from the scorning looks of mankind. I preferred the almost nonexistent light of the moon or the stars at night, if any light at all. I had explored and mastered at anything that could mask and hide the terrible truth of my visage, but I still dreaded the break of dawn.

But the sunlight wasn't even the worst part yet. I let out a roar when I brought my quivering hands up, absent-mindedly running them through my hair...

My mask was gone.

I jumped to my feet, screaming in sheer wrath and despair, hiding my face behind my hands. My mask. Where was my mask? I peeked out between my fingers, scanning the room, but I could not find it. Where was it? _Where was my mask_? My pulse exploded, and the room began to spin as terror washed over me, making me dizzy.

"Erik? What – "

I blindly lashed out when I felt a hand upon my shoulder, infuriated and terrified. There was a thud, someone groaned, and then I heard the sound of broken glass. Spinning around, my senses cleared up enough to realise there was a woman lying on the floor about six feet away from me. It took me another moment to recognise her. Then the anger boiled up inside me again.

"You!" I yelled, quickly closing the distance and pulling her back on her feet. "You little prying Pandora! You little demon! Is this what you wanted to see?"

I grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her violently. I couldn't help it, I was so conviced that she had done this on purpose, that she had done this to harm me. But she just whimpered, and I got sick of it, so I carelessly pushed her back onto the bed. Turning the entire room upside down, I eventually found the mask on the floor, hidden beneath my shirt. I let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief, putting it back on.

"Erik..."

I stopped when I heard Illina's voice from behind me, grinding my teeth to suppress my fury this time. As much as I wanted to at this moment, I couldn't unleash the monster inside. Not here. There were too many people around who would hear, and quite possibly even see, something.

"Erik, what is wrong with you?" she asked, her voice quiet and fearful.

I let out a bitter laugh, glaring at her. "What is wrong? You took off the mask, you little viper! How could you? How _dare_ you?"

"I'm sorry." She swallowed hard, her arms wrapping around her knees as she rocked back and forth. "I didn't mean to... I won't tell anyone. Your identity is safe with me. I promise."

I was about to shout at her again when suddenly I stopped. What did she say? My identity was safe with her? What was that supposed to mean? What did it matter who I was, least of all to her? She didn't know anything about me except my name.

"Please tell me, what did I do wrong?" she questioned desperately. "I thought that once we were alone, the disguise wouldn't be of any importance anymore."

Disguise? What was she talking about? I was incredibly confused, shaking my head. "What – "

She looked up at me with her grey-blue eyes, and when the sudden realisation struck me with brute force, I stumbled backwards, my own eyes widening in disbelief. She was looking at me, but she didn't see me. There was a vast emptiness behind those two pools of blue, everything and nothing at the same time. They gave her face this dreamy look of not quite being where she was, and I failed to believe I hadn't seen it.

Illina was blind.

Silence spread, and I couldn't help staring at her. Within a moment, it all made sense. The stumbling. The touching walls as she walked. Her hesitation to look at me. It was all so clear, so obvious now that I couldn't help thinking I should have known. But then, how could I? The night had hidden her face most of the time. When she stumbled, I assumed it was because I was walking too fast. Maybe trailing her hands along the surfaces of what-have-you was just one of those strange habits that people have. And last night, she moved about so swiftly, I wouldn't believe it all if I hadn't been here at this very moment.

Illina was blind.

Within just a split second, I realised why she hadn't refused me. My horrendous face was invisible to her. It wasn't of any importance at all. I tried to calm my breathing down as this one thought kept spinning around in my head, pestering me over and over again. Would she have slept with me if she'd known what I looked like? Or would she have turned away? Had she only given herself to me because she was oblivious to the disgrace? Or was she so desperate that she didn't care? Questions with no answers attacked me out of nowhere, and I just couldn't decide if this entire event was a blessing or a curse. After thirty-seven years, I had finally gotten what I wanted, but suddenly I somehow almost wished I hadn't. I was angry. I was confused. I felt like she had toyed with my emotions, felt as though she had fooled me.

"Where is my cape?" I hissed as I reached for my clothes and got dressed. I couldn't stand being here any longer. This place, her presence, it was driving me insane. I needed to get away.

"Over there, in the chest," she replied tonelessly.

I turned around and opened the old, wooden chest at the other end of the room. And indeed there it was, as well as my purse. I took them both, wrapping the cape around my shoulders as I fled from the room. The rotten door simply gave way when I forcefully pulled at the knob, forgetting about the key I had at this moment, and I didn't bother to shut it behind me. I just ran without looking back, battling the tears of anger and frustration that tried to escape my eyes.

This wasn't what I wanted.

* * *

**song credit: **Your Eyes Open, by Keane 


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four - Repercussions

_**Too late to hide and too tired to care  
You know where I've been  
I've been down this road before  
All that I've found points right back to you **_

I absent-mindedly watched my hand take on a life of its own as it guided the pencil it was holding across the paper on the table in front of me, drawing a thin black line right through the middle of the virginal white of the sheet. I was trying to work, trying to sketch plans for a new house that I was supposed to construct and build, but my mind had been working on a different level for the past few days. Another week had passed since I last saw Illina, and I had thought that by now I would be over it, that by now those memory flashbacks would have subsided.

_Skin against skin, warm and soft. __Shaky breaths like gentle whispers in the ethereal vacuum of glowing serenity. Raven black hair falling into my face. Hands roaming over bodies, caressing and exploring. Fingers entwining. Lips descending upon skin. Nails clawing my back. The feel of her warmth around me. _

I put the pencil down with a sigh, taking a seat and resting my face in my hands as I shook my head. Part of me wished those ghosts would stop haunting my mind, tormenting and tempting me with their presence. And yet I felt an unfamiliar little pain in my chest when I thought of it, and I closed my eyes for a moment, watching that night in a surreal slow motion before my inner eye, over and over again. There was no sound now, no ragged breathing, no groaning. Just the images, undisturbed and softened by the orange light that had filled the room. It felt like a dream, and I constantly had to remind myself that it was real.

Then the doubts and the resentments suddenly appeared out of nowhere, cornering me as they had done a thousand times before. I couldn't help thinking it all wouldn't have happened if Illina had known what she was getting herself into. I was certain that she would have rejected me if she could see my face, so was it really as special as I'd thought at first? Furthermore, wasn't she a prostitute and therefore did not care who she slept with as long as she got paid? Would it all have happened even if I hadn't caught her and more or less forced her to repay what she had taken from me?

I felt like such a fool, it's hard to describe. A fool of pride who did not want to admit how hurt I felt inside, but also a fool of my very own imagination. Secretly, I had always harboured the image of a true love based on genuine feelings, in spite of knowing that it was out of my reach. I do not know why love and physical passion had been so closely linked in my mind, but now I knew they weren't necessarily the same. It confused and angered me, especially because I wasn't sure how to deal with it all. I could feel my blood burn with desire everytime I remembered those moments of complete oblivion, aching for more. But the recently awoken lust for flesh that I felt could not cloud the emptiness that had taken a hold of me afterwards. This wasn't love. Something was missing. It was an emotional trap posing as love, leaving you chained and hurting once it was over.

Getting up, I crossed the room and sat down by the window, looking out as the sun was about to set. I watched the sky slowly change its colour from light blue to purple, then orange and yellow, and finally to a blackish blue when the sun had descended for good. My gaze lingered upon the illuminated castle for a while, and its reflection in the broad river that lay beneath, still like a black mirror. It was indeed a beautiful view that I had from my window, so enchanting that I forgot how long I actually sat there that evening. It must have been quite a while, because when I woke from my reverie, it was nearly completely dark. My mind was a no man's land right at this moment. So many thoughts were spinning around in my head that they all dissolved into a bothersome nothingness. They were like the wind. I knew they were there, I could feel them, but they were impossible to grasp. Shrugging it off, or at least attempting to do so, I got back up and headed to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of wine.

I sat back down at my desk and looked at the sketches I had made. They were bad, and I was both annoyed and shocked about that. Nothing I'd done since my learning years with dear Giovanni in Italy had ever been anything but excellent, and naturally I wasn't very delighted to see my latest work turning into a disaster. But the inspiration just wouldn't come, and if I did have an idea it didn't work out the way I'd planned. I had a vague feeling that it had something to do with the uneasiness inside that I was battling, that I wouldn't be able to go back to my usual brilliance before this matter would be dealt with properly.

As the night grew older, the contents of the bottle slowly diminished, and my mind somehow freed itself from the corset I forced it to wear most of the time. I wasn't drunk, mind you. It takes more than just a bottle of wine to suspend my senses. But I relaxed a little, partly because I was tired, but also because darkness makes the heart grow bolder. I did not wish to listen to it during the day because I knew how troublesome that would be. In fact, I preferred not listening to my heart at all, since it had always left me doubtful and vulnerable. When I had listened every now and then, there had always been questions, but never even a single answer. For instance, who needs a heart when a heart can be broken? And how can a heart break once more when it was never whole in the first place? I didn't understand it. I must have been very young when it was shattered for the first time, because I don't remember the actual event. But the fear and loathing my mother had shown me all my life until the day I ran away certainly hadn't come out of nowhere. I think I was born with the awareness that I wasn't allowed to touch her. I had never asked her for anything, except on my fifth birthday. Not that she would have celebrated it if her old friend Marie, a plain and down-to-earth woman, hadn't pressured her into it. Retrospectively, I sometimes found myself wishing Marie's visits had been more frequent, because she had been the only one who could reach the spoiled and childish woman that my mother really was. Who knows, maybe things would have been different. As I said, she was the reason my mother ever celebrated one of my birthdays at all. But then, I wish I could just erase that day from my memory. It had been the day when all my secret hopes that maybe somewhere deep inside my mother did loved me had died. When she questioned me what I wanted for a birthday present, I told her I wanted a kiss from her. One right at that moment, and another one to save for a sadder day. And what did she do? She burst into tears and yelled at me, asking me why I tried to make her kiss me. _How dare you ask me for this?_ was what she said. Indeed, how dare a child ask his mother for a kiss.

Then there had been Christine, about whom I did not want to think any longer. Sometimes I briefly wondered how she was doing, if she was well and if the Vicomte was treating her right. But fortunately my mind always stopped those thoughts before they became hurtful. It was pointless, and I knew it. Alea iacta est, I had struggled and I had suffered, and eventually I had moved on.

So when that traitor beneath my chest spoke to me again this night, hesitantly and quietly, I growled inwardly. _Leave me alone_, I yelled silently. But an aching heart is even worse, is even more persistent than a guilty conscience.

"_Touch me, Erik. Feel me. Explore me."_

_I swallowed lightly as my hands travelled down Illina's spine, coming to rest on her hips for a moment before I obeyed her, moving back up her sides. Her skin was like satin against bare flesh, and I leaned in as I cupped her bosom, kissing my way down the curve of her neck. _

I still remembered every curve, every soft edge of her body. How fragile she'd felt when I'd pulled her to me. The daring boldness of her caresses. The sound of her shallow gasps and low whimpers when I found a soft spot. Suddenly a thought crossed my mind. What if this hadn't just been _my_ first time? What if this night had been special for her as well? I had never taken up a prostitute's services before, but I had heard that the more time you spend there, the more you want her to do, the more expensive it is. That is the very simple rule. And since men are greedy, I doubted any of her customers had taken the time to treat her right. They must have been eager to get their satisfaction quickly, to get over and done with it swiftly, not caring if she felt pain or disgust. I, on the other hand, I had needed her to show me. And she did. She'd been my mistress until the break of dawn. But once I had found out how to touch her, when I realised there were certain things I could do to make her shiver and cry out with pleasure, the tables had secretly been turned. Maybe I had been the one to show her something different. To show her that she had sold her soul for nothing all these years. To show her that physical passion was supposed to bring two people together.

_But she's a prostitute,_ the spiteful part of me sneered.

_So what?_ the heart answered calmly. _Does that mean she's not human? _

_What if s__he only gave herself to you because she cannot see your horrendous face?_ my mind wondered.

_Does it matter?_ replied the heart. _What ifs are useless. _

When the internal battle became too much to bear, I got up again, pacing the room nervously.

_What if it was meant to be exactly like this? _I asked myself. _Isn't it true that it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, and that what is essential is invisible to the eye? What if the nature of perfection as we know it is an illusion? _

I shook my head vehemently, failing and refusing to believe the other side of the coin that had just begun to reveal itself to me. Then I remembered that Nadir once gave me a book titled _the Symposion_ by the famous Greek philosopher Platon. It is said there that once upon a time, man and woman were one. Then they angered the Gods, and subsequently they were split in two as a punishment. Condemned to be alone even though they couldn't survive without the other, they have been looking for their missing halves ever since, and this is how love was created. This book had made me believe that somewhere in the world, there _had_ to be one person you were made for. All those years, I used to think that I was excluded because of nature's cruelty. But now I began to wonder if maybe I had found my missing half after all this time. I hadn't wanted to be born with a face like that, while Illina certainly hadn't begged for her blindness. And yet there we were, both of us blemished and imperfect in the eyes of the world. But weren't we in fact perfect for one another?

I panted, placing both hands on the wall to steady myself. The realisation was a shock for me. It was so simple, so promising that I instantly felt as though it couldn't be that easy. There had to be a catch. Why would life suddenly treat me kindly? What reason was there for the heavens to send me a companion to end my loneliness? But the longer I thought about it, the clearer it became to me that this was my chance. All I ever wanted was right there. I just needed to reach out and take it.

Fifteen minutes later, I was decent, hurrying down the darkened street towards the quarter where Illina lived. I still remembered the route we took last time, and eventually found her house without much difficulty. As I approached the building, I suddenly realised that she might not be home. What if she was out on the streets again, looking for someone to use and abuse her so she could pay for her next meal? I felt a terrible jealousy boil along my veins, clenching my fists to keep calm. She had to be home. She just had to be. I didn't know what I was going to do if she wasn't there. I ran up the stairs to her flat, surprised to find the door both unlocked and ajar. Then I remembered breaking it when I left, and I sighed inwardly. In a place like this, a door that cannot be locked is a great danger. That had not been my intention.

I hard the sound of a crying baby before I even saw it. Knocking softly before I stepped inside, I looked around. Nothing had changed, but there was a smell in the air that alarmed me for some reason. I strode towards the living-room, where I found Illina. She spun around when she heard the approaching steps, her expression quickly changing from concerned to frightened.

"Who's there?" she asked fearfully, her empty eyes scanning the room.

But I didn't answer. I was mesmerised by the tiny bundle in her arms. The baby couldn't possibly be older than a few months. Judging by the oh-so-slight sturdiness of the features (compared only to a baby girl, of course), it had to be a little boy. His little arms and legs were limp, and he was crying without having the energy or strength for it. Illina was rocking him softly, trying to calm him down, but it wasn't working.

"Who's there?" she asked again, her voice quivering.

"It's me," I said quietly as I looked up slowly, meeting her blank gaze.

"Erik?" She frowned, obviously confused. "What are you doing here?"

For some reason, this was a question I hadn't been prepared to answer. I had come here without making up my mind, without really knowing what I wanted. Tell her that we were meant to be? I couldn't help but laugh inwardly at the thought. It wasn't that simple. I didn't even know if she cared about me at all. Chances were she didn't. What had I come here for? To reassure myself? To relive our night of passion? Suddenly I didn't know.

Then I remembered the key. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out, looking at it. I had almost forgotten about it, but I was relieved to have found it now. It gave me an alibi.

"I still have your key," I said, producing a soft sound by putting it on the table, so that she could hear it. "I've come to return it."

"Oh, please." Illina snorted, shaking her head as she began to walk about in the small room again, trying to soothe the baby to sleep. "I don't need the key. The lock is broken, remember?"

"I know."

I took a step towards her, wanting to have a closer look at the little one. Children are the only true soft spot that I have. Only they are entirely innocent until their parents ruin them, and nobody but them knows how to judge a person according to the character, not the exterior. They always speak the truth, they ask the questions everyone else is afraid to ask, and once you have earned their trust, their confidence and affection will be with you always. A child is pure and true and eternally looks up to you with sheer amazement and devotion if you treat it right. You can do great things with the tabula rasa of a young child. Great things... and terrible things that can never be undone. Children hunger for their parents' love, and if they're denied this very essence of happiness, something inside them will die. And the worst part of it all is that they will think it's their fault. They will think that they deserved being treated like this for some reason. Maybe because they cried too much when they were little. Or because they broke their mother's favourite vase. Or because they were born with the wrong face. Children will always be the very first innocent victims of someone else's crime.

"Is he yours?" I asked, stopping when I realised that with every step I took, Illina was taking one step back.

She ignored the question. "Erik... what do you want?"

"Is he alright?" Somehow my instincts told me that the sickly smell was because of the boy. Or maybe it was them both.

"What do you want?" Illina was yelling now, moving away from me as far as possible. She covered the baby with a blanket, holding him as though she was trying to shield him from me.

Grinding my teeth, I forced back the anger I felt because of her stupidity. Surely, our parting hadn't been very amicable, but I really found she was overreacting. I wasn't going to hurt her, why couldn't she see that? The only reason I'd hit her the last time was because I was terrified.

"I came here to see you," I answered. "Please... I do not mean to harm you."

"Do you not?" she laughed sadly. "What about last week, Erik? I can't see the bruises you gave me, but I feel them." Brushing her hair aside, she revealed a terrible black-and-blue mark around her temple. "I'm a little prying Pandora, am I not? That is what you called me before you stormed off, didn't you? A demon. I don't know what I have done, but you did this to me. So what did you come here for?"

I had turned away halfway through her little speech, pressing my hands to my ears. I didn't want to listen. But I couldn't shut the words out. They still came through to me, echoing in my head. Every single letter was a hard, low blow, and I felt indescribably guilty. She was right. She was absolutely right, and I had no idea what to do about it. I couldn't say those three words that would make it a little better. Apologising just isn't my strong point.

"It was an accident," I muttered through clenched teeth.

"An accident." The dry sarcasm in her voice was almost painful.

"Yes, an accident!" Without really wanting to, I raised my voice. "You don't understand."

"Oh, I do, Erik. I'm damn sure I do!" Her words now carried an angry undertone, and I felt a little alarmed. "I know men like you, Erik. I don't know why, but you can't live with yourself and all you do is feel sorry for your terrible fate, thus you take it out on others. I've learned to take the beating, but I'm not letting you get away with telling me it was an accident. If you can't take the responsibility, then don't. But if you don't, then _clear out of my sight_!"

She meant it, and I knew it. An eerie silence manifested itself between us, making the seconds pass agonisingly slowly. The baby was still crying, I knew that, but I didn't hear it at that very moment. I had to make a choice. If I backed out now, I knew I would never see her again. That much was sure. But why it bothered me so much, I was afraid to admit it. Never before had anyone rendered me useless within just a few moments, and I almost hated her for it. She didn't know me. There was no way she could. So how come she was always right with everything she said?

"I didn't mean to hurt you." The words had slipped past my lips before I even fully realised it. But when I did, I bit my lip, holding my breath. It was half of an apology, and it caught me off guard, but it was too late now. Swallowing, I forced myself to continue. "I panicked, Illina. I lost myself for a moment. I didn't want it to happen."

_I'm sorry._

Silence.

"I accept your apology," she finally said.

I closed my eyes for a second, taking in a deep breath, releasing it slowly through my nose. It was done. Hopfully things would turn out for the better now.

"What is wrong with your son? He is your son, is he not?" I questioned.

"Yes, he is. He's sick. He's had a fever for the last two days."

"Then why don't you go and see a doctor?"

"Do I look like I can afford a doctor, Erik? Besides, no doctor would treat him."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a harlot, and he's a bastard. That's why."

Hating the fact that her words were true, I took a few steps towards her again. "Let me treat him. I can help."

"How? Are you a doctor, Erik?"

"I lived with gypsies for many years. One of them was a witch. She taught me how to make potions. There was an epidemic once, and everyone except the two of us died because I saved us. I can cure him, Illina."

She didn't believe a word I said, I could tell from the look on her face. But this time it was up to her to take the offer, or to decline it. I'm not foolish enough to believe she accepted because she trusted me. It was her motherly instinct that knew her child was going to die unless she got help, and since I was the only help she could get, she had to take the chance. After all, she had nothing left to lose.

According to the symptoms she decribed to me, I came to the conclusion that the illness was scarlet fever. Knowing it was highly contagious, I made enough medicine for the three of us, making sure Illina and I wouldn't get sick ourselves. In her case, it was already too late. Two days after my return, Illina's temperature was high enough to heat the room, and the same red rash that had overtaken the baby's features had now gotten to her. Other women and their children in the house had gotten sick, too. It was an epidemic on the hunt for victims, and even though I felt somewhat sorry for them all, my priorities were clear. Nobody can save the world, but I did what was within my power to cure Illina and her son. I soon got to the point where everything seemed pointless. The fever got worse and worse as the days passed, and I began to fear I would lose them both. But they were strong, both of them. They were helpless, they were miserable, they whimpered and cried in their sleep, they groaned as they coughed and vomited, but they didn't give up. I stuck around and did what I could, giving them the potions to drink and trying to lower the fever. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into a month, and when Illina and the baby finally recovered, it was already late April.

The situation was strange, to say the least. Illina avoided talking to me unless she had to, and ignored me whenever I tried to start a conversation of some sort. At first I thought it was because she was trying to gather all her strength for recovery, but even when she was finally strong enough to leave the bed, she acted as though I wasn't there. I didn't understand it. I failed to believe she didn't appreciate what I had done. There was no doubt that she would have died without me, so why was she acting so cold?

One night, as I sat at the table, watching her as she breastfed the baby, I realised I didn't even know the little one's name. I'd been here for six weeks now, and yet she hadn't bothered to tell me what he was called. In fact, I didn't know anything, and it bothered me because he would have faced the same fate as his mother if I hadn't been there. Somehow I felt responsible for him now.

"Your son," I said as I leaned back and folded my arms, "what's his name?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

"I saved his life, Illina. Whether you like it or not, we're connected now. Don't you think I deserve to know what he's called?"

She sighed, shaking her head slowly. It was obvious that she wasn't very fond of the idea of granting me any access to the child, something I can't _really_ blame her for. But I stubbornly refused to take no for an answer.

"He's Lazaro," she answered after a little while.

"Lazaro..." I mumbled to myself, wondering where I had heard that name before. I have always been of the opinion that names are very important. They keep track of who you are, and they are going to be with you even when no-one else is. A sturdy name will help you withstand a lot of bad times and hurt. _Lazaro..._ it sounded familiar. And then, after a few moments of contemplation, I remembered. My mother had made me read the Bible when I was young, hoping I would become a good Catholic. The self-proclaimed Holy Book soon bored me, but I hadn't forgotten the story of a man named Lazarus. He was the patron of the poor and those excluded from society. He became sick and died, but Jesus raised him from the dead. I didn't believe in this story, of course... but the striking similarity to what had happened rose my fascination as well as suspicion. I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence. The baby hadn't died, and even though I do admit I am not like any other, I'm not enough of a lunatic to call myself some kind of messiah.

"Who is his father?" I asked curiously.

Illina shrugged. "I don't know. I try not to do business during certain days of the month. Seems like I wasn't careful enough."

I nodded slowly, not really knowing what to say. Another one of my picture perfect images had just been shattered, namely the one that a child was the result of the love between a man and a woman, born into this world. Regardless of my mother's hostility towards me, I knew she had loved my father. Maybe that was why she had despised me so much. It must have seemed like a punishment to her to give birth to a baby like me. Nothing had prepared her for me.

"Where was Lazaro when we...?"

"We take turns, Erik. Each of us girls watches the babies for a day so the others aren't hindered doing what they have to do."

I sat up straight again when I perceived the irritated undertone in her voice. Time was running out for me, I knew it before she said it.

"Stop asking me questions, Erik. Stay out of my life, do you hear me?"

"Oh, so now you don't want me here any longer?" I snorted bitterly. "Now that you're well again, I'm no longer welcome?"

"You can come back anytime you want, Erik," she answered indifferently. "But if you do come here, I'm not going to treat you any different from everyone else who comes to me. I appreciate what you have done for me and Lazaro, but I won't get emotionally involved with anyone."

I won't attempt to put the pain I felt into words, because it would be a spectacular failure. Another rejection. That's what it was, and it hurt. It physically hurt. I tried to breathe, but it seemed impossible. And as I sat there, lost for anything to say, I simply did what I always do when nothing seems to work anymore.

I left, walking away without looking back.

* * *

**Alea iacta est.** (Latin) – The die is cast

**song credit: ** Empty Space, by Lifehouse


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five - You belong to me!

_**You don't have to wear that dress tonight  
You don't have to sell your body to the night  
His eyes upon your face  
His hand upon your hand  
It's more than I can stand**_

I have never been good at keeping the promises that have slipped past my lips in a moment of weakness. They are like New Year's resolutions, except for the fact that one makes them more frequent, and usually even less sincere. A promise is in fact a lie in a pretty disguise, because you can proclaim it at a certain time when it is still a truth, but break it later and leave the person concerned with a bitter aftertaste of how it should have been. That is the reason why I've tried very hard to avoid those arbitrary half-truths either way, neither wanting to be the one to give nor to receive one. I suppose I should have known that when I swore to myself I would never go and see Illina again, I wouldn't be able to stick with my decision for too long. Promises are tricky. When they deceive you, you instinctively try your hardest to keep the damage at a minimum.

The fact that my thoughts strayed from where they should have been at a certain time, only to revolve around a pair of blue eyes, it drove me insane. It reminded me of the obsessive uneasiness that had taken a hold of me when Christine was the centre and purpose of my life in Paris. Once more I couldn't sleep, I hardly ate, and I found myself pacing the room so often that you could tell by the tracks on my carpet where I had walked. Unfinished sketches were piling up on my desk (and they were so bad that I could barely look at them, least of all go back to correct them without getting annoyed with myself), there was a thin layer of dust on my piano because I hadn't even used it once in a fortnight, and Ayesha had actually started hunting mice because I often forgot to feed her.

Good old Ayesha. When I did notice every once in a while that I had neglected her, I felt incredibly guilty about it. Ever since the stormy night when I found her on the streets of Paris more than fourteen years ago, she had been my most trustworthy and loyal companion, and now that she was growing old I was letting her down because of a woman who didn't even care about me.

I sat down on the settee in my living-room, carefully picking Ayesha up and settling her on my lap. A long, quiet sigh escaped my lips as I absent-mindedly stroked her creamy white coat, smiling inwardly as she purred. Letting go has never been a strength of mine. I had to let go of too many hopes and dreams at a very young age, and in the years to come I had repeatedly been robbed of the few remaining things I held dear. Maybe that was why I had such difficulties banishing Illina from my mind. My rational self would laugh at me everytime I caught myself thinking that the story couldn't end like this. I don't believe that everything is meant to happen the way it does, or that whatever happens makes sense somehow, but I failed miserably everytime I tried to make peace with the thought that we were supposed to just go our separate ways.

_You cannot dismiss me like this, Illina, _I thought to myself. _You might not want to admit it, but when you make love to someone, your body makes a promise. Say what you want, you cannot deny that I was special._

The problem was that I didn't have the slightest idea how to convince her to take off the armour she was wearing, to find a good enough reason for taking this chance that lay before us. Maybe it was because I secretly knew I was a slave to my own inhibitions. Trust is such a quaint idea. It is bothersome, and it is dangerous. I just wanted Illina for myself, nothing more, nothing less. To be honest, I didn't really care how she felt about it at this moment. As long as she was there it would be alright for me.

My decision to go back yet once more caused an uproar in my rational mind, but I simply ignored it for the time being. All of this, my wanting, my aching, my impulsiveness, it was madness, and I knew it. But to some extent, even insanity has a certain logic. And I was going to stick with this kind of logic tonight, regardless of the consequences. It was indeed very probable that it would all end in a disaster, but in this case I was free to walk away from this scenario for good. This kind of freedom gave me reassurance of some sort, because freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.

Finding Illina's flat deserted was like a hard punch into the face. I knew exactly what it meant. She was out on the streets again. Walking the dark, narrow alleys for the money of whoever would come along. I shook my head violently, trying to shake off the disturbing images that invaded my mind without a warning.

_A dirty side street. Plumpish hands groping her petite frame. The quiet whimper as she was being pushed against the wall roughly. Skirts being pushed upwards. The muffled cries of pain as her customer enjoyed himself__ tremendously. A silent tear running down her cheek as she picked up the coins tossed at her feet, ashamed and disgusted with herself. _

I felt sick just thinking of it. No, I couldn't let this happen. She didn't deserve to be treated like this. Nobody had the right to do this to her, to abuse her, to make her a worthless object that could be used and dropped again at will. No other had the right to claim her unless the motives behind it were sincere. She had given herself to me, and _only_ to me. Anger and jealousy boiled along my veins, and I clenched my fists. I needed to find her.

My feet barely touched the ground as I roamed the streets, scanning every dark corner, every hideout, every place I could possibly imagine she would go including the spots where I met her the last two times. I don't know what made me think I would find her within just a few hours when it had taken me a week the first time I had been looking for her. I just had to find her as soon as I could. With each passing second I was running out of time to save her. My desperation reached unknown levels when the morning came, and I still didn't know where she was. I even stopped and asked random people if they had seen her, but Lady Luck was most certainly not on my side. The terror of the approaching daylight was nothing compared to the feeling that I had failed. I kept running until my lungs were about to burst, retreating into a still dark side street where I broke down, too exhausted and too desolate to care if someone saw me. My fists crashed against the bricks over and over again until my gloves were ruined, and I felt the blood trickle down my knuckles. But I didn't feel a thing. I was already numb because somewhere in this city, someone had taken what was mine.

Making my way back home, I wrapped the cape around me to protect myself from the curious stares of farmers heading for the market in these early hours of the morning. Once more I was grateful to know every corner of the city as though it was my living-room, because I did not see where I was going. I just kept walking, grinding my teeth to hold myself together. I was almost home when I had an idea. Certainly Illina would return to her flat soon. Turning around, I rushed back to the old house, getting there the very same moment she came around the opposite corner.

She looked miserable, walking slowly and as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders. I stopped and stayed silent until she was within my very reach, then I grabbed her by the shoulders, maybe a little harder than I'd intended to.

"Shh, it's me," I said when she gasped and drew back in fear.

"Erik."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and I couldn't tell what that undertone in her voice was. Annoyance? Fright? Confusion? She wasn't surprised to see me, this much was clear. I frowned as she lowered her head and let out a quiet sigh.

"Let's go inside," she murmured tiredly. "My feet are killing me."

I nodded my head, hating the fact that I was worried about her. She hadn't looked this terrible the last time I saw her, and I didn't even want to imagine why she was so torn and tattered. She was shaking as she walked, and after a brief moment of hesitation, I steadied her even though she probably didn't want it. But she was too tired to protest at this very moment.

Illina fell onto the bed the moment we got to her bedroom, her eyes fluttering shut as she let out a groan. I watched her as she just lay there for a few moments, not moving, breathing slowly. When I began to wonder if she had fallen asleep, she sighed, running her hands through her hair as she struggled to sit back up. I reached out, wanting to help her, but she roughly pushed my hand away. I swallowed hard to fight back the anger and hurt this simple gesture caused me, taking a deep, silent breath.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"What do you care?" she snapped. "Why can't you leave me alone?"

"Because you belong to _me_!" I yelled in a sudden outburst of emotion, kneeling down in front of her and gripping her shoulders. "You're _mine_, Illina."

"Have you lost your mind?" she chuckled, but it sounded like a fearful sob. "I'm not anyone's property, Erik. Least of all yours. Who do you think you are to walk in here whenever you please, threatening me and telling me what to do?" She tried to free herself from my embrace, but I held her there, not letting her go.

"Listen to me," I growled, secretly wishing she could see me just this once to realise how serious I was. "I'm not a fool, Illina. You hate this life that you live and the way you have to let men abuse you for a living as much as you hate the fact that I won't take no for an answer. So far, I have considered you a smart woman, and I would deeply regret it if you proved me wrong. Do you know what the other women in here are whispering behind your back?"

She struggled with herself for a moment to force back a whimper, then shook her head.

"Some of them call you stupid," I proceeded. "Others call you lucky. And do you know why?"

This time, she did emit a quiet sound that resembled a tired groan, and again she shook her head.

"Because you could have a sponsor, Illina." I paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. "You would never be in need of anything. You would get away from this run-down place forever and live in a house on the nicer side of the city. All that I ask is that you're bound to me exclusively."

I fell silent once more, letting go of her and getting up. Pacing the room, I looked over my shoulder, watching her as a mix of emotions spread across her face. Shock, disbelief, doubt, insecurity. But in the midst of it all, for a very brief moment, there was hope. A dream she must have thought dead reawakening. A better life. I didn't let it show, but I was hoping, almost _praying_, she would agree. If she declined, I wouldn't know what to do. Maybe I would just take her.

"What about Lazaro?" she asked quietly after what seemed like forever. "He needs me."

"Take him with you then," I replied calmly.

"You're willing to feed a child that isn't yours?" This time she did sound surprised.

"I'm prepared to take care of what needs to be taken care of," I answered indifferently, blocking out any emotion that would give away the hope that stirred inside me. I didn't know her very well, but asking me questions meant she was at least considering it.

"Why?"

I frowned, turning around to face her. "Why what, Illina?"

"Why are you doing this? Why me? If all this is real, then you must be a rich man, Erik. You could choose any woman to be your companion. Why me? I'm a dirty little harlot who-"

"Because only you can see behind the mask," I interrupted brusquely, freezing when I realized what I had said. But it was too late now. Seeing the confusion on her face, I turned to another good friend of mine – pressure.

"Yes or no, Illina? You said it yourself, I can choose anyone. Don't test my patience. Accept my offer now, or the chance is gone forever."

Silence filled the room as I stared at her, and she eventually turned away from me, trying to escape my piercing looks. I was tempted to tell her it was useless, that the only way she could stop me from haunting her was to be with me. But I think she knew. Resting her face in her hands, she sat there like a stone angel for I don't know how long, biting her bottom lip. Finally, she looked up, and if I hadn't known better I would have believed she was looking right into my eyes. It was a moment suspended in time, and I swallowed hard as my eyes fluttered shut for a second.

Then I opened them again, waiting for her to answer me at last.

* * *

**song credit:** El tango de Roxanne, from Moulin Rouge OST 


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six - Surrender

_**Oh if you could see my heart  
The way I feel inside  
You would know just how far  
I'm willing to go to get to you**_

It had only been a few weeks since Illina had moved into my home when it became inevitably obvious how much she had flourished under my care. There had always been a subtle eroticism about her, a kind of untamed and wild beauty sleeping within, but it was under _my_ wing that the raw diamond became a sparkling crown jewel, that her sheer exquisiteness was uncovered. The abundance of a variety of nourishing meals and the availabilty of a daily bath had performed a true miracle. Her skin was no longer pale and sallow but of a healthy rosiness, and her lacklustre curls had become a mane of thick black silk whose rich tendrils I couldn't stop winding around my fingers. The boyish boniness of her body had transformed into a dream landscape of gentle slopes and valleys that I eagerly explored anew night after night. Illina had never been unattractive, but now she was so alluring, so beautiful, that I found it unspeakably hard to take (and keep) my hands and eyes off her. The only reason I got any sleep at all was the fact that unfortunately exhaustion did take over at a certain point. But even if it was only an hour or two that I actually rested, I felt refreshed and vibrant every single morning. Nighttime belongs to lust, and I revelled in it, relishing those moments where time stands still for the sake of pleasure. All those things I had fantasised about when I wrote Don Juan were now reality, and I took great pride in the fact that even though Illina acted entirely indifferently towards me, only doing what I asked her to and constantly keeping me at arm's length, she was not immune to the pleasures I poured over her. I thrived on those breathy moans, those whimpers and cries that she failed to repress when I held her in my arms. Every single soft sound that slipped past her lips betrayed the coldness she showed me, which I suppose was the reason why I never lost my patience with her. At least for a while.

At one point, however, it dawned on me that _she_ did indeed hold all the aces. I claimed her every night, but all the while I never got a single kiss. The first time I tried to capture her lips with mine, she closed her eyes and turned her face away, offering me her slender neck instead. I was too caught up in the heat of the moment to think about it any further, but it happened over and over again during the nights that followed. Everytime I attempted to kiss her, she'd withdraw from me, distracting me somehow. She managed to fool me for a certain time, I give her that. And yet there came the moment I realised she was doing it on purpose. Illina did not _want_ to kiss me. I was free to do with her body whatever I wanted, but she would not kiss me. I cannot say why it bothered me so much, but my obsession to taste those lips grew with each time she denied me.

"Why won't you kiss me?" I therefore finally roared one night when I leaned in once more, only to find her turning away again as I pressed her up against the wall. I grabbed her face with both hands and forced her to face me, grinding my teeth."Why, Illina? _Why_?"

She winced momentarily, but regained her irritating aloofness rather soon. A quiet, dry chuckle slipped past her lips, and she snorted softly. "I don't kiss, Erik. A kiss is a display of affection between lovers. Between two people who are emotionally connected. Do you really think I would kiss my son with the same lips that I have offered to someone who _pays _me to be with him?"

I just stared at her then, too shocked to believe my ears. If I hadn't been paralysed by the overwhelming hurt those words caused me, I might just have hit her in a moment of rage. It wasn't as bad as being told I was rather wanted dead by my own mother at the age of nine, but it came very close to that. This was cruelty refined to perfection. My heart stopped beating for a moment, and I took a few steps back, trying to catch my breath.

"What do you think we are, Illina? Tell me, what am I to you?" I yelled on top of my lungs.

"You're my _sponsor_, Erik," she replied calmly. "And I do _not _believe you have any reason to complain."

"Yes, I do," I growled, dangerously quiet. "You belong to me, and I have every right to kiss you!"

"Take what's yours then," she answered coldly. "But don't expect me to give it to you willingly."

Now that was just too much.

"Clear out of my sight!" I hollered, letting go of her and grabbing the bottle of wine on the table next to me. I threw it across the room in a rage, smashing it into pieces. I glared at her, and I could have sworn she felt my scornful stare as though it was a multitude of daggers cutting into the flesh of her back as she left the room.

Needless to say that the atmosphere was a little frostier than usual after this little incident. I went out more frequently in the evenings, not going anywhere in particular most of the time, just roaming the empty streets, trying to get away. I composed several pieces of music in a matter of days, but they were so full of anger and aggression that not even I considered them suitable for the philharmonic. My anger smoothed out eventually, but the hurt remained the same. What else was I to do? I had given her a home, food and clothes, I had treated her with a respect I had previously reserved for Nadir and Madame Giry alone, and even though you could possibly say I insisted on exercising my rights, I never hurt her like all the others had but tried to make it pleasurable for her, too. It was so unjust, so frustrating, so heartbreakingly painful. I was almost ready to give up on it all, to throw her back out onto the streets where she had come from, and it was a mere coincidence that stopped me from actually doing it.

I was sat at the piano that one night, working on some music. This endeavour proved rather difficult, though, as I still found it hard to concentrate. Lazaro had been crying nonstop for what seemed like hours on end, and even though he was in the adjacent room to where I had banned Illina, I could still hear him. At first it was a little unnerving, then it was purely irritating. I jumped to my feet and strode across the room, pushing the door open.

"Is he done crying yet?" I snapped. "I'm trying to compose a piece of music, and this is doing nothing for my nerves."

"I'm sorry," Illina replied softly, rocking the little one as she spoke. "I don't know what's wrong with him. I've fed him, his nappy is fresh and I don't think he is sick. He just... he just won't stop."

"Yes, I can hear that," I growled, but my tone of voice softened just a little bit at the sight of the tiny bundle in her arms. Being at odds with Illina was something that had nothing to do with Lazaro. She had never let me near him, but I felt a sudden urge to come closer everytime I laid eyes on him. He didn't have any fault in this.

"I've been trying to get him to sleep, but it's just no use," she sighed, stroking his head. "I should go outside so you can have your quiet."

"No, you stay right here," I commanded. Just because I couldn't stand being around her didn't mean she was suddenly free to do as she wished. "Give him to me."

"What?" A confused look overtook Illina's features, slowly turning into suspicion. "Why?"

"Give him to me," I simply repeated, closing the distance between us.

"Erik, what are you up to?" There was a fearful undertone in her voice, and when I realised she was afraid I would hurt him, anger flared inside me again. I ground my teeth for a moment, forcing it to back down.

"I'm not going to harm him, if that's what you think," I stated tonelessly, reaching out and just taking him from her then. I ignored the cry of protest from her, effortlessly pushing her away when she attempted to take him back. I then turned around and headed back to my living-room. Looking down at Lazaro as he cried on with maximum volume, I felt the same bittersweet pull at my heart that had almost torn me apart when I had held Reza in my arms for the first time. He was so little, so weightless, so warm and soft. My gloomy mood was gone before I knew it, and I began to rock him carefully as I walked about, trying to calm him down.

"Shh," I whispered, planting a tender kiss on his forehead. "Shh, it's alright."

Surprisingly enough, his sobs decreased in regularity and volume rather abruptly. I raised a brow, shifting him in my arms so my one hand was free. I felt my heart leap within my chest when his tiny hand barely wrapped around my index finger, tugging at it gently. He blinked and sniffled a few times as he opened his eyes to look at me. Eyes that were as blue as his mother's. For a moment, it looked as though he was puzzled not to see Illina's face, and if I hadn't known better I would have bet my life on the fact that he frowned ever so softly in confusion. I knew it was impossible for such a young child to wear a countenance of this sort, and yet... I had never seen such awareness of the surroundings in a child's eyes, and I was very impressed indeed. He emitted a soft cooeing noise as he tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. It almost seemed as though he was curious who I was. And suddenly I had the crazy idea that maybe he had been crying because of the tension that was in the air.

"Good boy," I murmured, gently cupping his head in my hand. His thin, fluffy curls tickled my palm softly. They were like satin against bare skin, and I couldn't stop caressing him. "Now, there really is no reason for you to cry, little one. Your mother and I have had a terrible fight, yes, but it'll all work out."

I have no idea what made me say this, especially not when I had heard Illina step up behind me a few moments earlier on. Seeing her lean in the doorway, I turned back around as though I had to shield myself and the baby from her eyes that could not see.

"Sleep now, sweet child," I mumbled. "Sleep well, sleep tight." And before I even realised it, I was humming a tune that had unexpectedly made its presence known in my head.

"Don't cry sweet child... I'm with you, I'm here." It had been a while since I had last sung to someone, but I felt my heart swell with pride when my voice caused a wide, toothless smile to sppear on Lazaro's face. I smiled back at him, tickling his stomach softly. It was amazing how the words just came to me without even having to think about them. "Don't be afraid, there's nothing to fear... above you, the stars are shining so bright... so close your eyes now, and dream for a while."

I kept singing, rocking him softly as I moved about. I took a silent breath when he began to yawn, randomly at first, but more and more often as I continued. For some reason, I was almost sad that he seemed to get tired so soon. When his eyes had stayed close for a good five minutes, I trailed off, humming as I turned around and walked back to Illina, who hadn't moved from the spot where she'd stood and listened.

"I think he's asleep," I said quietly as I carefully placed him back in her arms.

She just nodded, the expression on her face unreadable. I watched her as she went back to her chamber, laying Lazaro down in his cradle with great care. I expected her to come back out and argue with me for taking him away from her, or to close the door and shut me out. To give me a sign of some sorts. But nothing happened, and so I retreated to the living-room once more, opening a new bottle of wine as I sat down by the window.

I couldn't tell how much time had passed – seconds, minutes, hours? – but after a while I heard the soft sound of bare feet hesitantly tiptoeing across the carpet. I held my breath for a moment, listening to hers. She seemed calm and collected, but the fact that she stopped and waited when she was about six feet behind me gave her insecurity away. I wondered what had made her change her mind, why she was approaching me now. I knew that she knew that I had heard her, and I enjoyed the position I was in very much. Illina needed a reaction of some sorts from me, she depended on me to admit or dismiss her, which clearly made me superior. And I like being in control.

"What is it?" I eventually asked nonchalantly without turning my head.

A moment or two passed before she answered me. "Can I sit with you for a while?"

Suddenly I was very glad that it was dark and that I wasn't looking her way, because her words caught me totally off guard. My brows furrowed, and I blinked. This was a move I hadn't expected her to make. I had a vague feeling she was up to something, but I didn't even have the slightest idea what that could be. I thought about it for a little while, finally deciding to give it a try.

"Certainly."

I watched her as she came closer raising an arm to touch the wall and guiding herself to my little niche by the window. She sat down in front of me on the cool stones, wrapping her arms around her knees as she leaned back against the stone frame, seemingly looking out onto the lake. Neither one of us spoke for a long time. Minutes passed, and I eventually turned my gaze away, back to my glass of wine.

"What's the view like from up here?" Illina then asked softly.

I frowned again, asking myself how the view could possibly be of interest to her. "It's beautiful," I replied truthfully.

"Would you be so kind to describe it to me?"

If I wasn't already confused, I was now. "Care to tell me the reason why you're interested in the view from my window? It's not like you can see a thing."

It was mean to say something like this, and I knew it. But I just couldn't help it. The spiteful part of me was still strong enough to strike back, and the fact that she seemed to be playing a game with me whose rules I couldn't figure out irritated me somehow.

"I wasn't born blind, Erik," Illina replied patiently. "I was about eleven when my eyes began to get worse, and it was only around my thirteenth birthday that my world drowned in darkness. I need you to see for me now, and to tell me what you see. Share it with me... please?"

Silence spread once more as I sat there, utterly and completely stunned. I was at a loss for words, too shocked and surprised to think of any kind of response. Not only had this been the very first time that she had disclosed personal information to me without being pressured to do so. She had also asked me for something, and even though my mind beat against it, I could not have turned her down if my life depended on it. I had hoped for her attention for so long that I didn't want to deprive myself of it now that I actually had it.

"There's a black, glassy lake below us," I said, my voice quieter and softer than I had intended. "It is in fact the Vltava river, but it's broader here than a few miles further up and down town, and it only flows very slowly. On the other side, there is the castle..."

I spent a good half an hour describing the view to her, and the most surprising thing about it was that I actually enjoyed it. Making her see through my eyes meant I had to use symbols and metaphors to illustrate the mood of this image outside the window, compare what I saw to things I assumed she knew. It was fascinating, and I juggled the words like an artist, forming, transforming, arranging and rearranging them until they became a tangible picture. I almost got lost in it when suddenly Illina got up and reached out.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"I'm here."

Putting my glass down on the ground, I instinctively took her hand in mine, gently pulling her towards me. I felt my heart skip a beat when I felt her other hand on my shoulder, trying to figure out where exactly I was sat, and before I knew what was happening to me, she was sitting on my lap. I heard a muffled gasp in the dark, and I was afraid it could have been me. My hands roamed down to her hips, digging into the soft flesh ever so slightly as I fisted her thin nightdress.

"Illina..."

My voice was barely a whisper, and I felt so lost that for a second all I wanted at this very moment was to run away. What was she doing with me? What was she doing _to _me? The sheer closeness of her body didn't fail to have the usual effect on me, clouding the warning cries of my mind. Her scent filled my head, and my breathing sped up just a little. My eyes fluttered shut when she cupped my face in her hands, her thumb caressing the unmasked side of my face.

"What do you look like, Erik?" she murmured questioningly.

I froze for a moment, paralysed by an overwhelming wave of self-consciousness. My appearance was a secret soft spot of mine. I had grown accustomed to it over the years, had learned to live with it because I couldn't change it, but to think of it willingly, to put it into words was hard. I still hated this face. I shook my head vehemently, swallowing.

"Please... I want to know what you look like," she whispered softly, brushing her thumb across my cheek again with a heartbreaking tenderness.

I gulped, feeling cornered and scared. If I had had any control over my body, I would have pushed her away, I would have jumped to my feet and fled, but I was unable to move. I was under her spell, and it frightened me beyond belief.

"Please, Erik..."

Taking a deep, silent breath, I somehow found the strength and courage to oblige. "My eyes..." I thought for a moment, feeling foolish about being uncertain what colour my eyes were. But had it ever mattered to anyone? "They're green... and I have dark hair... straight, brown ha-"

When I felt her fingers on the hem of my mask, my body immediately went rigid, and I quickly grabbed her hands, forcing them back down. "No!..." I panted.

She didn't fight me but waited until I hesitantly let go of her hands again. I winced when she cupped my face once more, panting.

"Don't be afraid..."

I shivered when she whispered the words into my ear, my eyes fluttering shut once again. Torn between excitement and fear, pleasure and pain, aching and wanting, I simply let the fever overtake me. Every nerve in my body was crying out for her, restrained only by the fear I felt because she had rendered me useless with a simple touch, with a few whispered words. Nobody had ever had that kind of power over me.

"Can I take it off? The mask? Will you let me take it off?" she asked softly. And strangely enough I somehow knew that if I really said no, she would accept it.

"Why?" I almost cried, feeling how I began to shake. "Why, Illina?"

"Because you're hiding behind this thing," she sighed. "I want to see you."

The truth can be so harsh sometimes. I couldn't answer, couldn't say yes or no. Failing to stop her as she took off the mask, I resigned to my fate, keeping my eyes closed so we were both caught in the same darkness. The kind of darkness that became a comforting nothingness after a moment, and when I felt her fingertips skimming over my entire face as gently as a butterfly perching on a flower, a rush of adrenaline boiled along my veins. There was nothing of friendliness in that tender caress, but rather it was filled with feminine wiles. A softness one reserved for the touch of a lover. My heart began to beat so fast that I was afraid it might break my chest. It felt so unspeakably wonderful to be touched, to be _caressed _without hesitation, without fear. The only thing that drove Illina as she explored my features was a tender curiosity, and I let out a shaky breath. When her thumb traced the outline of my bottom lip, I couldn't contain myself any longer. I brought my hands up to her face, cupping it and pulling her towards me with passionate brutality, leaning my forehead against hers so I could feel her warm breath against my lips. She froze, but I knew I had to keep at it now. We both needed to take off our masks.

"Say it, Illina," I whispered urgently. "Say 'kiss me, Erik.' Say it, beautiful. Please..."

She swallowed hard, her breath coming in ragged, shallow pants. I looked at her out of half-closed eyes, watching her struggle with herself. The way she trembled in my grip, the way her bottom lip quivered, the look of apprehension on her face, it must have been a mirror of myself just a few moments ago. I couldn't help feeling as though we were both standing on the edge of a deep abyss, but the only way we could leap was together.

"Tell me," I coaxed, mimicking her earlier movements as I caressed her cheeks with my thumbs. "Give in, angel. Seal our fate."

My fingers slowly traced the path to her own lower lip, memorising every curve and smooth edge of her silky flesh, as I had done a hundred times in my mind. The sensation of her skin was like velvet against bare flesh, and my blood slowly licked up along my veins like raging fire. I needed her. I needed her so badly at this moment that I was willing to sacrifice anything to get that kiss. My life might not be depending on it, but my soul did without a doubt.

"Kiss me, Erik."

I released a noisy breath when those three words ended my torment at last. Closing my eyes, I leaned forward to close the distance between us, capturing her lips with my own. They were warm and soft and smooth, and for a moment or two I did nothing else except revel in the feel of her mouth against mine as our lips shyly acquainted themselves with one another. Then Illina sucked on my bottom lip ever so softly, returning the kiss, and I felt my breath quicken against my throat. She wasn't going to change her mind, wasn't going to back out again. No, she was returning my kiss, and I could have sworn my heart would flush straight from my chest and into her exquisite grip. Bringing one hand to the nape of her neck, I tilted my head to the side just a little for better access, tracing the line of her cheek with my thumb as the tip of my tongue sought to part her lips. I was hungry, I was heightened, but it wasn't enough. Kissing her was like a feast to a starving man, and I wanted to drown in this intense intoxication.

Illina slid her arms around my neck, her body now pressed up so closely against mine that I could feel the heat radiating from her. I let my free hand roam her back aimlessly, slowly and gently. She let out a quiet, shaky breath, and I shuddered, knowing she was relishing this as much as I was. I pulled her face a little closer as my tongue parted her lips, slipping against the dark, warm cavern of her mouth. I tasted her as though I had been offered a sip of rich red wine, my senses fading into oblivion, drunk with emotions. I teased her tongue with my own, kissing her with fervent ardour, plunging inward and retreating again, wanting her to match me stroke for stroke.

The moment she did, the kiss exploded.

Our tongues entwined, engaging in a wild, passionate dance that soon left us both breathless. A shallow moan escaped my lips as I pulled back for a brief moment to catch my breath, and I heard Illina gasp, too. I felt pure agony wash over me during those few seconds that my lips left hers, and I crushed my mouth against hers again, rife with passion and desire. Our kisses became deeper and deeper, shaking the both of us to the very core. Caught up in a downward spiral that pulled us from the atrocities of reality down into the dungeons of passion and desire, we lost ourselves in each other's arms.

It was the moment of unconditional and complete surrender.

* * *

**song credit:** Let me love you, by Tim McGraw 


	8. Nadir's Interlude

Interlude - A friend

_**My old friend, I apologis**__**e  
For the years that have passed  
Since the last time you and I  
Dusted off those memories**_

I found it impossible to quite put my finger on it, but I could tell something had changed considerably the moment Erik came through my front door. It was a very brief, yet incredibly astonishing moment, because in spite of having known him for over a decade, I would have to lie if I claimed to be able to read him easily. Only a wishful fool could be so inane to think that Erik would unintentionally disclose even an unimportant piece of information to anyone. I am fairly convinced that I have the questionable honour of calling myself his only true friend, but I wasn't as ludicrous as to believe this might mean he would treat me any differently. No, he always only reveals what he wants you to see. It is part of his manipulative nature to give away only what he needs to in order to make sure things will go exactly the way he wishes.

Even after all these years, I still struggle to find the right words to describe our friendship. How it came about. The nature of it. Or the benefits of it. Being someone's friend requires commitment, honesty, loyalty, patience and understanding, and certainly it is not rude but only true to say that Erik lacks all those qualities most of the time. I used to think of him as a wicked fiend with a terrible temper, and somehow it felt like betrayal, but my memories were of enough reassurance to put my conscience at some kind of ease. I had seen him kill in cold blood, for perverted pleasure and for immature revenge alike. Being of a rather squeamish nature, I cannot deny I often found him repulsive beyond words. When the Shah sent me on the long journey to Russia to bring him to the Persian court so he would entertain the equally sick and evil-minded Sultana, I did not have the faintest idea of what I was about to get myself into. But I remember cursing the day he was born, because finding him meant I had to desert my son for an indefinite period of time. I hated him before I had even met him, and the sheer arrogance and aloofness he showed me did anything but change my impression of him. Erik tested my patience far too many times to count; he shocked and offended me on countless occasions, merely for his own entertainment. Without a doubt, he was the least likeable specimen I had ever crossed paths with.

So how did it all come to this? When, how and why did we become friends? I still find it hard to explain. It may be that he saved my life twice. If the inflammation of my lungs on the way back from Nijni Novgorod hadn't killed me, the sting of the scorpion in his chambers in Tehran certainly would have. His motives for saving me each time have long been as enigmatic to me as our friendship itself. No, I told myself it couldn't be because he saved my life. Gratitude would be the apt and natural reaction to such deeds, not a friendship that runs deeper than the Caspian Sea. Neither could it be because he made my son's last days on earth as pleasant as they could have been when one suffers from a deadly disease. It took me years to truly forgive him for his mercy killing of Reza. I knew he had done the right thing, but there is a great difference between knowing and believing. No, I couldn't love him because my son had loved him either. Quite the contrary. There had been a time when my heart was about to burst with jealousy and anger because he challenged me for Reza's trust and devotion. He had been so fascinated with my little boy that I was unspeakably afraid he would deprive me of my natural role as his father.

It took me long to realise that every man has a shadow. A darker side of the personality he displays in his everday life, a black sheep of his own soul. A few brave exceptions have the courage to admit it. The majority, however, and that includes me, tends to deny it. I am not saying I saw Erik when I looked into a mirror, but he often reminded me of all the wrongs I had done myself. There is no room for an honest man at the Persian court. Rampant corruption and blatant backstabbing had practically forced me to adapt to the given circumstances, if not in my heart then at least in my behaviour. Nadir Khan, the former daroga of Mazanderan and chief of the police, has probably killed more men by sentencing them to death than Erik ever will. I may not be a murderer per se, but death is death, whether it is unjust or supposedly deserved, regardless whether someone dies at the hand of a ruthless assassin or those of an apparently authorised executioner. The connecting element between Erik and me was the blood on our hands. I did not always know him, but I understood what it meant having to do the exact opposite of what was originally in your nature. There is good in both of us, but the courses of both our lives have restricted it greatly. Somehow we both understood that finding it again meant opening up to someone, to trust someone.

Therefore I was amazed beyond belief when I saw him that night. It had been just over three months since we last saw one another for longer than just a few moments during which he would collect his mail from my house. I had never asked him why he was so busy, knowing he would decide on the moment to share this information with me. But whatever it was, he was no longer the same. It was as though a gloomy veil had been taken off of him, as if someone had lifted the weight off his shoulders. I almost dreaded saying it because it seemed so strange, so utterly impossible. But for the first time during all the years I had known him, he looked content.

"Come inside," I said, beckoning him to follow me to the living-room once he had taken off his cape. "Dinner is almost ready."

We walked over to the beautifully decorated table. Eight months pregnant or not, Olga was nonetheless a whiz in the kitchen, and she had insisted on cooking and serving us one of her delicious meals. I smiled and rose to embrace her when she entered to greet Erik, feeling my heart swell with pride as I ran my hand along the curve of her stomach. She chuckled, then slapped me gently because my overly doting display of affection in front of our guest embarrassed her. I laughed inwardly and let go of her, letting her walk over to Erik, who bowed and kissed her hand in a gentlemanly manner.

"Have you ever heard of that girl again?" she asked with a friendly curiosity. "The one you brought here a while ago?"

Looking over at Erik, I saw the hint of a smile playing on his lips as he slowly nodded his head.

"Illina is alright," he confirmed. "She sends her greetings."

Olga and I exchanged an astonished look. I wasn't too surprised that he'd tracked her down; finding a person he wanted to find was a task Erik had always accomplished, no matter how difficult. What stunned me was the implied content of his last sentence. It was formal, yes, but one could only send his greetings to someone else's friend if there was some kind of connection. My brows furrowed ever so slightly, and I gave Erik an equally confused and questioning look.

"Are you telling me she's with you?" I asked incredulously as we sat down when Olga had discreetly returned to the kitchen. Not that I didn't know that pestering Erik for answers usually didn't work. But this time I just couldn't help it. He had been in his early twenties when we first met, a young man with desires that were no different from other adolescents, or in fact any man. It hadn't taken me long to realise he was by no means indifferent towards female beauty. Quite the opposite was the case, and knowing how overwhelming the _need_ for a woman could be at times, I hadn't even wanted to imagine what it must have been like to live with constant rejection. Whereas I had the privilege of calling upon the services of one of my maids after Rookheeya's death, not even the slave girl given to him by the Shah as a present had wanted to share his bed. And suddenly it dawned on me why Erik's aura had puzzled me. A man whose natural needs were being fulfilled subsequently had quite a different outlook concerning the ways of the world. Sometimes life is really that simple.

He didn't answer me at first but opened the bottle of wine that had been waiting on the table for our use, pouring the dark red liquid into two glasses. Handing me one of them, he took a sip of his drink, resting his face in one hand as he pondered. This time, however, my knowledge of human nature did cover for the things he seemed a little reluctant to tell me. Every now and then, no answer is in fact an answer.

"She is indeed," he replied kind of indifferently, but I detected an ever-so-faint contented undertone in his voice. And, after a pause, he added, "And I am considering making this union official."

I have never been the impulsive type, but now I felt my jaw drop. "What?" When had he started thinking about marriage? Who _was_ this girl? I had definitely missed a few things here.

"Well, the boy needs a father," he shrugged.

"The boy? What boy? Are you saying she has a child?" My bewilderedness reached unknown new levels. "He's not _yours_, is he?"

"His name is Lazaro. And no, I am not his biological father. But that hardly makes a difference to a four months old baby, don't you think?"

This time it was me who remained silent. The news was too much all at once. I could feel the thoughts flailing about in my head, almost making me dizzy. There was so much I instantly thought of, so many things I felt the urge to remind him of, countless aspects that had to be considered. All I could say for sure at this very moment was that Erik had changed. Quite possibly forever.

"Your enthusiasm really flatters me," he remarked dryly, snorting softly as he drank some more wine.

"I'm sorry," I replied, leaning back as my mind kept on brooding over what I'd just heard. "It is just a little sudden."

"I know that," said Erik. "But Nadir... look... "

I knew it wasn't a literal command to give him my attention, but my eyes met his nonetheless. And what I saw in them frightened me more than any cold or angry gleam.

"I think I found it... found _her_... after all this time... it's impossible, and yet... Nadir... "

My eyes fluttered shut and I let out a long, yet barely audible sigh. A minute ago, I had thought it was imprudent to rush into marriage just because this girl had made him a man. But now I knew it was worse than that. Far more complicated than that. As much as I wanted to be happy for him, I couldn't help having a rather bad feeling about all this. Everytime Erik had fallen in love, the whole ordeal had ended in a disaster. Luciana, the daughter of his beloved master mason Giovanni, had died. True, it had been an accident, but I only had to listen to one of his feverish dreams to find out that this terrible experience was still haunting him. And then the drama with Christine Daaé was still too recent to just be forgotten about.

"Erik, are you sure about this?" I asked cautiously. I expected him to be upset about it. After all, he had an extraordinary talent to find insults and accusations where there weren't any. But this time he simply nodded.

"Nadir, don't believe I didn't have the exact same doubts," he answered gravely. "But I am tired of being afraid."

At that very moment, Olga reentered the room with our dinner, and we ate in silence, each of us lost in thought. The fact that this didn't seem like one of his usual rash and impulsive decisions calmed me, but only a little. I knew very well that it only takes one person who loves you to make everything worthwhile. If Erik did really have her now, he might get a chance to restore and cleanse his soul that had been darkened and almost destroyed by the ruthless Sultana when she exploited his dislike of people and made him build the torture chamber, unleashing his inner hell. In spite of the potential for utmost cruelty that lay within him, Erik had always had a strong instinct of taking care of and protecting the innocent. The weak and helpless were the ones he felt the most compassion for, and this little child he had spoken of would undoubtedly touch the innermost of his being. And regardless whether the boy was his or not, it wasn't far-fetched at all that he would become a father himself. He, who had never known loving parents, might find himself again in this role, and even though it would be entirely new to him, I had no doubts he would excel at it. Yes, it could all be the definite end of a vicious circle for him.

But I dreaded the other side of the coin.

Illina did indeed have the power to change it all. But the problem was, she could influence the course of his life for the better or worse. It was a risky game, it was hit or miss. If she ended up breaking his heart, everything would fall into pieces and he'd be beyond salvation.

Life can be cruel in ways that I cannot explain. I felt guilty about my inhibitions, but I just couldn't help it.

I was terrified of how wrong it all could go.

* * *

**song credit:** My old friend, by Tim McGraw 


	9. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven - Fatally yours

_**The damage is done  
What could have been is over  
Before it began  
Couldn't you have told someone? **_

It was almost midnight when I returned from Nadir's house. I must admit I had expected a slightly different reaction from him when I told him about Illina. It was indeed unexpected news, I give him that. But I could sense he was very sceptical and rather reserved about it, and the doubts he had tried to conceal angered me. No, not just anger. They hurt. It almost seemed as though my contentment was a character deviation to him, something that wasn't supposed to be. The worst part was that I didn't understand why. Out of all the people in the world, he was supposed to be the one to comprehend best how urgent my need for... love really was.

I made no sound as I entered my house, not wanting to wake Illina, who had probably gone to sleep a while ago. I had told her not to wait for me when I left, knowing I might be home late. At first I had contemplated taking her with me and officially introducing her to Nadir, but eventually decided against it. I had wanted to be alone with my good friend when making a confession of such utmost importance. Illina wasn't too disappointed about having to stay home. She understood my reasons for not bringing her, and I really appreciated it.

Now I was looking forward to holding her again, to falling asleep with her in my arms. I opened the bedroom door, impatient to catch a glimpse of my sleeping beauty – and found the bed not just empty but also unused.

I blinked in mild confusion, unable to believe my eyes for a moment or two. Then the information of what I saw really sank in. She wasn't home. But where else could she possibly be at this late hour? Turning around, I headed to the adjacent room where Lazaro's crib was, but secretly I already knew she wasn't there either. The house was as silent as the grave, she wasn't here. And neither was the baby. Still, I pushed the door open, staring into the empty darkness once more. Panic was rising inside me. Where was she? Where did she go? Why did she leave? Seeing how she'd taken Lazaro with her, I knew she hadn't just gone out to get the tea. She must have waited for me to head over to Nadir before sneaking out of the house. Suddenly I understood why she hadn't be too sad about having to stay here. She'd been up to something all along. My pulse quadrupled as the anger grew stronger, and I clenched my fists.

Where could she be? What could possibly be a reason for her to leave my house after nightfall, especially in my absence? Why hadn't she told me she needed to go somewhere? I returned to the living-room, staring out the window for I don't know how long before I started pacing the room frantically, asking myself the same questions over and over again. A possible answer was pressing at the back of my thoughts, but I refused to believe it. After all, it was because of me that she no longer lived a hard and dangerous life on the streets. I had given her everything she needed, had lavished attention and devotion on her. And that kiss by the window... I had never felt such a connection between two people. It had been more intimate than any of the nights we'd spent together, and I was so sure it meant as much to her as it did to me. Or at least I had been until now.

What was she doing? Who was with her right now? Terror washed over me when the same horrendous images that had overtaken my mind before assaulted my imagination once more with brute force. I pressed my hand to my temples, groaning and panting, trying to shut them out. But it was a lost battle.

_A fat old man's greedy groans and breathless pants. His sloppy kisses on her skin. __The grunting. Calloused fists ripping her dress. _

"No," I whispered to myself, gulping, nearly suffocating myself because of the large lump in my throat. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard glass shattering, but when I felt the pain in my chest I knew it had been something else.

I spun around when I heard the key being turned in the lock, quietly and carefully as though someone did not want to be heard. Remaining where I was, I blended in with the shadows and listened to the sound of tiptoeing feet. Illina's breath was low and quiet. Apparently she wasn't sure whether I was already back or not, and it looked as though she was trying to sneak back in without being noticed. I would have found it rather amusing if I hadn't been so furious.

Waiting until she was at level with me, I silently emerged from the shadows.

"Welcome home, Illina."

She gasped loudly and jumped, almost dropping Lazaro. Spinning around, she stared at where she assumed I was in a kind of shock that I found hard to describe. But it was irrelevant anyway.

"You're back already!" It wasn't a surprised question, it was a statement made with an undertone of fear in her voice. I knew she could tell I was enraged. She had been with me long enough to learn that lesson well.

"Indeed I am," I replied, dangerously quiet. "And I am most horrified to find out that you are betraying me in my absence."

I watched her wince at the sharpness of my voice, and I almost enjoyed it. The rush of adrenaline through my veins, the sweet taste of power and superiority... a cold smile overtook my features. A few days ago, I had let my guard down for a brief moment. Maybe it was time to demonstrate that it still didn't mean I could be deceived or manipulated. And perhaps I needed to show her I could put it back up within a moment.

"Erik, oh God... I wasn't – "

"Where were you?" I hissed angrily, taking two quick steps towards her. My jaw clenched when she moved away, running from me, towards the little chamber. I followed her swiftly, grabbing a hold of her arm just as she lay Lazaro down in his crib.

"I gave you everything you asked for!" I roared as I roughly pushed her against the wall. I heard a thud, then she groaned, but I didn't care. "I took you in, cared for you and your son!" I spat, stepping up to her closely, locking her between me and the wall. "And this is how you repay me? Sneaking out of my house at night to whore with other men?"

"Erik, listen to me – "

"Do you find me repulsive, Illina?" I growled. "Or perhaps you don't like being treated with respect?"

"Erik, no – "

"This is something I can help, you know," I laughed bitterly as I gripped her wrists, holding them above her head with one hand as my other went to her cleavage, fingertips brushing over the delicate skin for a moment before I hooked my fingers into the material of her dress and simply ripped it off her.

"Maybe that dirty little harlot inside you cannot help but crave the abuse," I sneered as I pressed my face to her chest, sucking and biting the skin mercilessly. Her heartbeat was fast, too fast for excitement or joy. No, she was scared. She was terrified. And my black heart swelled with pride at the fear that was resounding in my ears. It was like a rush, an unstoppable surge of satisfaction. She had gone too far, and now she was going to pay the price for that.

She struggled against me as I undid her dress, using brute force wherever impatience was faster than my hands. "Hold still!" I snapped, crushing the weight of my body against hers. She cried and begged me to stop, and I looked at her and laughed.

"Remorse comes too late, my dear," I whispered darkly into her ear. "You forgot that you belong to _me_. But don't worry, you will remember."

I pulled the last lace, giving the ragged dress a downward yank so it became a puddle around her feet, leaving her in her white undergarments. White, the colour of innocence. Soon it would be stained with blood and tears. Everyone eventually falls from grace.

Overwhelmed with wrath and the obsession to make her mine once and for all, to ruin her for any other lover, I crushed my lips to hers, biting her lower lip and forcing her to open her mouth, ravaging it recklessly. She tried to draw back, but I grabbed her face and held her in place, taking what was mine until I tasted blood. I pressed myself against her once more, my blood boiling, and my fingers raked at her thigh as I bit down on her neck hard, trying to force back a squadron of tears that suddenly attacked me from behind my eyes.

"I gave you my heart," I whispered breathlessly, closing my eyes as time suddenly slowed down to the point of standstill. "You broke it. Do you know how that feels? No, you don't. But I will make you feel it!"

And I kissed her again, even harder than before, raiding her until there was nothing left except the taste of sour iron and bitter salt. The tension inside me became unberable. The need, the wanting and the pain. I needed to get it out. My knuckes were white because I kept holding on to her hands with all my might. I shifted my weight to undo my trousers, my fingers slipping up her wrists just a little...

But it was enough. I should have known that in life or death situations, you develop strength you never thought you had.

It was already dark in the room, but my surroundings faded to complete black at the very same moment I heard porcellain shatter. Then the pain shot through my body as if I'd been struck by lightning, and I let go, tumbled backwards until I felt an obstacle at the back of my knees that made me fall over. I struggled for my balance, but it was a lost battle. My head was throbbing, and I felt disoriented, helpless as I fell. I hit the ground hard, and new pain filled me.

I groaned in pain and closed my eyes, slipping into unconsciousness.

The first thing I heard as I surfaced again was Lazaro's loud, siren-like cries. They pierced my ears and echoed through my mind like a terrible alarm, and I blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the fog that was blurring my range of vision. Slowly the mist cleared up, and at first I was lost.

Dim, orange light from a candle. A broken red rose on the floor, drowining in a puddle of black water. Pieces of a vase.

My mind was a blank until I saw Illina. She was curled up on the floor about ten feet away from me, like a foetus inside a mother's womb, her arms wrapped around her scraped knees. Her dress was gone, the only clothes she wore were her torn undergarments. She was sobbing quietly, staring ahead with emptier eyes than ever before.

Then I realized that blood was trickling down my temple. My shirt was partly unbuttoned and it was wet, stained with the red from my very own body.

It wasn't until Lazaro's cries re-entered my mind that I realized that I had done this.

Terror overtook me within a split second, and the need to breathe became an endeavour close to impossible. Suddenly I felt cold, and I shivered. No. No, I couldn't have done this. How did this happen? I was desperate, shocked. Struggling to get to my feet, I eventually failed, and so I crawled over to Illina on my hands and feet.

"Illina... angel..." I panted, reaching out for her.

"Stay away from me!" she yelled shrilly, lashing out so I quickly withdrew my hand. "Don't touch me!"

I stared at her then, so unspeakably tempted to burs into tears. But I was paralysed. It was lost. It was all lost now. A few weeks ago, I had saved her from being violated by three mindless youths. And now I had done it myself. What did it matter I hadn't gone through with it? I had unleashed the monster inside me, and it had destroyed us both.

Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into hours as we lay there on the floor, unable to move away, to flee from this horrific scene of human tragedy. But even as I shed the tears, that burning question was still spinning in my mind.

"Where were you?" I whispered hoarsely, dreading the answer as much as I craved it.

An unbearable silence followed, and I swear I could hear both our hearts pounding violently as shaky breaths drained me of my energy. By the time Illina answered me at last, I was too exhausted to feel anything anymore, except... internal death.

"I _meant _to tell you, Erik..." She was still crying, her arms wrapping around her stomach protectively. "I went to see a doctor to confirm it... it was supposed to be a surprise."

* * *

**song credit: **Already been too long, by Mike-Leon Grosch 


	10. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight - Déjà vu

_**Masquerade  
Paper faces on parade  
Masquerade  
Look around  
There's another mask behind you**_

_**True is false  
Who is who**_

_**Seething shadows, breathing lies  
Masquerade  
You can fool any friend who ever knew you **_

I received the invitation for the annual Grand Masquerade Ball at the Státní Opera via Nadir. At first I was rather suspicious, wondering why someone would actually _want _to invite me. Not that I couldn't just have attended the ball if I'd wanted to. But usually the host would make countless laughable attempts to secure I wasn't there. However, when I saw the Royal seal on the back of the letter, it made perfect sense. One thing I had learned at the Persian court was that those of kingly blood do not like to owe a thing to another person, because that makes you dependable and an easy target for blackmail. The emperor's somewhat distant cousin did not seem to buy the story of the unsociable architect who has never been seen. I suppose he either believed to be facing a phantom competitor for fame and influence in this town – because unfortunately, his lavish villa had not contributed to his own status quo but instead had sparked curiosity among his fellow noblemen as to who'd built it – or it was merely a Royal caprice. Still, there was no doubt that I would go. I certainly would not miss blending in with the crowd, enjoying a few ridiculously expensive snacks and watch the rich and famous celebrate themselves in all their glorious vanity.

The question I had to ask and answer myself was whether I should ask Illina to accompany me.

She was indeed still with me, but to be honest – I did not have the slightest idea why. When I'd finally gotten up from the floor on that fateful night, I'd run away and left her on her own, too shocked and ashamed of what I'd done to be around her any longer. There are no words to describe how terrible I really felt. The guilt had washed over me like a giant tide, drowning me in a poisonous cocktail of penitence and desolation. The grief was slowly eating me up from the inside, and I felt powerless to somehow put an end to it. For the very first time in my life, I was at a total loss for things to do. Only a fool would have thought an apology, even a sincere one, would make it any better. There was, in fact, nothing I could do. I could only hope she would forgive me, as undeserving as it was.

I was so sure she hated me with all her heart and soul, but when I came back in the early hours of the morning, she was still there. She'd cleaned up the mess I'd left behind, washed herself and just sat on her bed motionlessly, her expression blank. Like a beautiful, but broken, stone angel. It hurt so much to see her like that.

My mind did not find a moment of peace, as all my thoughts that weren't directly linked to Illina revolved around the beautiful miracle that was taking place in the midst of this hurtful chaos. She was with child. _My _child. It seemed so surreal, impossible in a way – how can a monster be the origin of an innocent life? – but it was happening, and inside I was ecstatic, hesitant, jubilant, fearful, relieved and terrified. This baby was the fruit of our passion, an unspoken love born into the world. Absolute perfection from utmost imperfection. In a way, it could be the end of a vicious circle. It would give me the chance to undo all the damage inflicted upon me. My child would never feel unloved or unwanted, would never be mistreated and abused. It would never be in need of anything. Nobody would lock this little one in a room, the cellar, a cage, or anywhere. I would show my little one the world and the great things one can do in it. If only I could. It was all so close, and yet so far way... because I had severely damaged the frail bond of trust and closeness between Illina and me. Maybe I had torn it beyond repair.

As the days went by, she stayed in her room most of the time, leaving it only when she had to. I found myself pacing the living-room for hours on end, unable to find an answer for why she didn't just leave. Part of me wished so hard she would. _Leave me alone_, that voice inside my head cried everytime I caught a glimpse of her. _Go and don't ever come back. _The truth was, I could hardly stand being around her. It was a constant reminder of my horrible misstep, like a knife to the heart that was being pushed in a little deeper each and every time. And yet I dreaded the moment I'd find her gone, desperate to keep her, wanting her back so much it was unspeakably painful.

That was why I eventually decided to take her with me. I was terrified that if I left her alone for a minute, she would run from me. Maybe, so I told myself, she was still here only because she was afraid I would violate her if she attempted to leave. Perhaps she was scared I would track her down and take brutal revenge.

My steps slowed down as I made my way towards her room, and I had to summon all the willpower I had to go through with it, to knock on her door. She didn't answer, of course. So I pushed the door open, standing in the doorway. I wasn't surprised that she didn't even turn her head into my direction. All those small things were low, cruel blows, but the fact that I knew I deserved every single one of them pained me even more.

"There is a ball at the opera," I said softly, holding up the piece of paper as though it meant anything. Pausing for a moment, I tried to find the courage to ask her this. It seemed so cynical. "Will you accompany me?"

At first there was only silence, of course. I hadn't expected anything else, and so I waited. Hoped she would answer me. It took a long, long time, and when I was about to turn away because I was almost convinced she'd decided to ignore me, she finally spoke up.

"What am I supposed to wear?" she asked tonelessly.

I stopped, looking at her for a second, wondering if that was half a yes or half a no, depending on the tone of voice. But it was hard to say because there was no undertone in her voice at all. Just an empty, indifferent question.

"We'll find something," I said. Pausing for a moment, I waited for a hint as to what her answer really was, but she didn't say a thing. "Is that a yes then?" I questioned.

She let out a long, barely audible sigh, a pained shadow crossing her beautiful face for such a brief moment that I wasn't quite sure it had actually happened. I could tell she did not want to go. She had absolutely no desire to spend an evening with me, and even though it hurt and angered me, I couldn't blame her.

"Will you come with me then?" I repeated, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.

"Yes," she replied laconically after a moment.

I simply nodded my head, lingering for a second before I left the room. Now that this was sorted, I had preparations to make.

The very moment I entered the Státní Opera, I almost felt as though I was back at the Opera Populaire in Paris. It was amazing, not to say shocking, how similar the two houses looked on the inside. A grand staircase with elaborate mahogany and gold banisters in the vast white marble entrance hall led to the main opera house, to an extensive ballroom dominated by red silk and golden columns. There even was the same kind of pompuous chandelier that I had caused to fall in Paris. I tensed inside, having a rather bad feeling about this for some reason. It was nothing, I told myself. Opera houses all over Europe looked more or less the same. Especially the ones that had been built around the same time, which was the case here. But it still felt like an ill omen.

Looking over at Illina, I let my eyes wander over her. She wore a strapless black and dark red corsetted dress that was the perfect balance of free-flowing, sweeping fabric and bustieresque constraint. It fit like a glove by slimming, supporting and accentuating her in all the right places. Her hair was put up in a simple, yet elegant bun that was being held together by two silver rose-shaped hair clips, and I almost found myself wishing her beautiful face wasn't hidden behind the mask of red feathers and paillettes around her eyes. She looked like an alluring, overpowering Cancan dancer from the Moulin Rouge, and I enjoyed myself glaring at every man who dared to take a too close look at her. She was _mine_.

For myself, I had decided to keep it simple. No matter where a man goes, he can always wear black and look both good and intimidating in it.

"Ah, Herr Le Mônfaté!"

I sighed inwardly as a short, red-faced, overweighed blonde man made his way towards the two of us through the crowd. The news of my arrival must have spread at the speed of light. Judging by his ridiculously pompuous clothing and the excess jewellery, he had to be His Royal Highness.

"It is an honour to meet you at last, mein Herr," he panted as he came to a halt. "I am Rudolf von Habsburg. Finally I do get the chance to express my gratitude for the magnificent mansion you built me."

Not wanting to, but figuring it would be beyond foolish not to in such a public place, I bowed my head just a little. Not respectfully by any means, but barely abiding the rules of society.

"The honour is all mine, Your Highness," I replied with mock respect, almost to the point of sarcasm, but von Habsburg obviously did not notice.

Watching him from behind my mask, it didn't take me long to figure out why exactly he was such a _distant_ cousin of the emperor. This man wouldn't be able to rule a herd of sheep if his life depended on it. He, on the other hand, appeared to be very impressed to see me, gawking at both me and Illina so rudely that I found myself tempted to tell him off.

"There's someone I would like you to meet, mein Herr," he said, beckoning me to come with him. I sighed inwardly, not very keen to be introduced to anyone, but it was inevitable. I tugged at Illina's arm gently and we both followed him through the crowd of chattering noblemen and their uptight, strained-looking ladies who constantly and frantically fanned themselves so they wouldn't pass out.

I came to meet a tall, plumpish man with short and slightly curly hair. He was dressed in a fine suit, and he wore small spectacles that made him look more intelligent than he probably was. His round face was framed by a beard and – I have to give him that – a perfectly trimmed moustache.

"This is Monsieur Leroux," von Habsburg said as we shook hands. "Like myself, he takes a deep interest in architecture. He is currently travelling Europe in search of inspiration for his writings."

"Documentations," Leroux corrected as he eyed me curiously. "Bringing all the wonderful countries of Europe to those who cannot see their beauty themselves."

"You are headed from France then?" I asked, even though – contrary to myself - his accent while speaking German was apparent. Somehow it was pleasant to meet a fellow countryman.

"Indeed." He nodded, sipping his champagne. "Paris, to be precise. Have you ever been to Paris, Herr...?"

It was highly amusing to watch von Habsburg assume the colour of a ripe tomato when he realized he had forgotten to give Leroux my name. He stuttered masses of overly exaggerated excuses, once again proving himself utterly unworthy of his supposedly Royal blood, but before he could compensate for his misstep, I introduced myself.

"Erik Le Mônfaté. Well, I was born and raised in St.-Martin-de-Boscherville en Normandy, a few hours from Rouen. But yes, I have lived in Paris for a few years." And with a humourous undertone in my voice that nobody but me would understand, I asked, "Have you ever been to the Opera Populaire?"

"You mean, before it was almost burned to the ground? I'm afraid, no." Leroux sighed. "It's a real pity. Although I am quite curious about that incident. Charles Garnier was the most famous and proficient architect of his time. He would never have constructed a suspension so frail that the chandelier in the main opera house could have fallen. No, no..." He leaned in a bit, and whispered in a conspiring voice, "It was the Phantom of the Opera."

I drew back a little, clenching my fist behind my back to prevent myself from laughing out aloud. Once I was convinced he had actually said what I thought he had, I found it quite hilarious. It was unbelievable. What had begun as a plot to take revenge, as means of pressure, had actually made me famous. A phenomenon people spoke of in hushed voices because they dreaded not being taken seriously. Not that the ballet corps girls hadn't done it before. But I was a few countries away now, some years after the actual incident, and it still had an effect on complete strangers who hadn't even been to the Opera Populaire.

"The Phantom of the Opera?" I repeated, cocking an eyebrow.

"I know it sounds silly...," Leroux muttered, readjusting his spectacles.

"Good Monsieur, no." I cut him short, looking completely serious as I smiled mischievously to myself. "I, too, have heard the stories. This heart-wrenching tragedy of unfulfilled love, it is a true shame that it will be forgotten about in a few years' time."

"What tragedy?" he asked urgently, with utmost curiosity.

"You don't know?" I pretended to be shocked, shaking my head. "The Phantom died of a broken heart because the woman he loved did not return his affection. She was destined to be the prima donna, and he trained her. Gave her his music. Made her voice take flight. But she betrayed him."

By now, Leroux was hanging on every words from my lips, looking at me like a wide-eyed six-year-old boy whose father tells him an exciting tale. And I thoroughly enjoyed myself. If I did this right, someone might be writing my biography. The ending would not be exact, but that was beside the point. Biographies without a little bending of the truth here and there tend to be terribly boring. And so I told him the whole story, also mentioning Nadir as a possible source. I knew the Persian would be wise enough to know what information to disclose and what to keep to himself.

"Even today..." I finished in a low, ominous voice, "... you can still find the labyrinth and the passageways beneath the Opera Populaire. That was where the Phantom lived, they say. In a secret house in the dungeons of the opera house."

"Are you serious?" Leroux was incredibly excited.

"Of course I am. Aren't you a writer, Monsieur? You should put this story to paper. I am convinced it would be magnificent."

"I will!" he nodded vehemently, gripping my hand and squeezing it. "Thank you, Monsieur Le Mônfaté. Thank you so much! For years, I have been looking for inspiration. This one will be my most famous and successful book, I can feel that."

I smiled an apparently generous, but in fact very superior, smile. "I am sure it will be."

As the night grew older, most of the guests lost some of their uptight correctness. A few did so with the help of alcohol, others because it became just too hot and tiring to stick with the rules of expected behaviour on such glamorous occasions. Or sometimes possibly a little bit of both. There was a lot of dancing, a lot of music, good and bad, and every now and then shocked gasps and hysterical laughter would echo through the ballroom when someone fell over or embarrassed himself in some other way.

Even Illina warmed up a bit after a while. She had been quiet most of the time, only speaking when someone directly asked her a question, as it was expected of women in these days. But she was not immune to the effects of champagne, and therefore agreed to dance with me when she'd had quite a bit of it. I spun her around many, many times, making the dancefloor ours and ours alone. She lost her hair clips somewhere along the way; and watching her long, curly hair fly about and cascade down her shoulders as her chest rose and fell rapidly pulled me into a trance.

At one point she tumbled and almost fell over, but I caught her in time and moved away into a darker and more private corner, where I sat her down on a stool.

It was only then that I realised she was glowing, tiny droplets of cold sweat running down her temples. Fear and worry seized me, and then I began to wonder if champagne and wild dancing were any good for a pregnant woman. It really looked as though neither of it was. She was whimpering quietly, and when I saw that her corset was cutting off her breathing, I quickly undid the laces, loosening it. Squatting down, I cupped her face in my hands.

"It's alright, we will go home," I said, leaning in and kissing her forehead. "Don't worry."

"Water..." she whispered, panting a little. "I need... water."

I nodded slowly, hesitant to leave her alone, but it was probably better to first get her something to drink now than getting her home.

"I'll be right back, angel," I promised, and in a moment of daring boldness pecked her lips. I did not expect her to fight me in the state she was in, but feeling her return the caress ever-so-softly caused hope to stir inside me.

But then I remembered she needed to drink, and I snapped out of my little reverie of winning her back. Getting up, I hastily made my way through the crowd, looking for a waiter to ask him for some water. It was a tougher task than I had imagined, because they blended in with the crowd rather well, but when I finally managed to get a hold of one, he quickly brought my glass of water, and I immediately set off to return to Illina.

Tripping over someone's feet halfway through the ballroom, I struggled for my balance for a moment, not looking where I was going because I was busy not spilling the water. It was then that I half stumbled into a man whose back was turned towards me, causing him to drop his glass and mask, almost knocking him over.

"Mein Herr, I am profoundly sorry," I muttered as I steadied myself, only to freeze when I saw his face.

"Raoul, are you alr - "

Then I saw _her, _how she bent down to see if he had gotten hurt. But the moment she heard my voice, the young woman looked up, and her eyes widened. Time stood still as we stared at one another in complete shock, failing to believe our eyes.

"Erik."

"Christine."

* * *

**song credit: **Masquerade, from Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera 


	11. Christine's Interlude

Interlude - Letting go

_**Of**__**ten I sit down  
And think of you for a while  
Then it passes me by and I think of  
Someone else instead  
I guess the love we once had is  
Officially dead**_

My father once said that the world is a village. "No matter how far you travel, little Lotte, you will always see a familiar face."

It did not make much sense to me then. In all the years that we spent travelling Scandinavia, wandering from one fair to the other, I never saw the same face twice. Only later did it occur to me that this was simply because we hardly ever stayed in one place long enough to make friends. Maybe that's why it was different then, and maybe that's why encountering Erik so far from home was such a complete shock for me.

He looked very good indeed, a lot better than I remembered him. The way he stood there, dressed in black from head to toe except for the very familiar white mask, gave him the same powerful and majestic aura I remembered from our first encounter almost five years ago. It was the exact opposite of the broken and desperate man I had left behind in the dungeons of the opera house in Paris, and I immediately felt my heartbeat quicken at the sight of him. It was irrational, it was stupid, and it felt like heartless betrayal as I held Raoul's hand, but I couldn't help it. Four years may have passed since I last saw him, but the memories were so fresh and vivid as though it had all happened only yesterday.

After Raoul and I had left Paris to live in the countryside with his elderly aunt, I'd spent many a night awake, tossing and turning in my bed as I brooded over my true feelings for Erik. For a while, I'd thought I loved him. Sometimes I still think I do, even though I know better now. My feelings for Erik had been strong, and they still were. But they weren't the affection of a lover. Your heart and mind often play tricks on you, and even when I was so sure I had it all figured out, I still found it hard to grasp. It's such a long and complicated story that I cannot blame anyone who can't or doesn't want to understand it.

I was just over sixteen years old when I completed my two years of training at the Conservatoire and afterwards found employment as a chorus girl at the Opera Populaire, but I still refused to see the world in any other way but through the eyes of a child. I stubbornly closed my eyes to each and every imperfection that might possibly threaten my wishful vision of blissful ignorance. For as long as I had been with my father, I'd always felt the sunshine warm on my face. When he died shortly after my fourteenth birthday, the one thing that I wanted the most was to keep believing in everything, yet know nothing at all of the atrocities that come with life outside the castles that he had built in the air.

Too late did I realise that the beautiful palaces papa had so carefully evolved in my mind were nothing but an exquisite prison, splendid measures of restraint and control. A castle of reveries in a painted pastel sky to chain me to him for as long as he lived. Since mama had died when I was very young, I had become the centre of his universe, his sole purpose in life. Papa did not care for anything else but me and his music, and he made it his honeyed charm that he used so effectively to lull me, keeping me a child during all these years.

You must not believe I was ever in need of anything. Although we were poor at times, papa always made sure I had food and clothes and a place to sleep, and even when the worst came to the worst and we did lack even those bare necessities temporarily, we still had each other. But neither he nor I realised how dependent I had become, that he was my world, my heart and my soul that I couldn't possibly live without. When his time was up, I fell into a state of utter shock and apathy.

A few years earlier, papa and I had met a man called Richard Valerius at Limby Fair in Sweden. I sang as father played the violin, and Valerius, as he passed by, was enchanted by my voice. He convinced us to follow him to Gothenburg, where he provided for my education. I received my first professional voice classes, and I made commemorable process. Eventually, we moved to Paris. Valerius was convinced that I had what it takes to enter the Conservatoire, graduate with summa cum laude, and conquer the stage.

But then papa died, and with him I lost my voice, my soul and my genius. Without the man who'd inspired me, without the one person who had always been there for me, I could not go on. Who was I to sing for when he was no longer here? Who would look at me, fondly and proudly, and show me his appreciation? I retained just enough of my skills to pass the auditions at the Conservatoire, but I attended the classes without enthusiasm, without esprit, without the inner will to participate. The more time I spent there, the less I enjoyed refining my voice. It slowly deteriorated to the point where I began to question if I had ever been able to sing in the first place. I knew my father had always spoken of it as an angel's voice, but I began to wonder if maybe parental fondness had biassed his judgement. Convinced I'd never be any good, I was almost relieved when my schooling was completed.

The Opera Populaire became my new home, but it was in fact as far from the true meaning of the word as possible. Sweet Meg Giry became my friend and confidante, but the other girls of the corps de ballet took an instant dislike towards me. I still don't know why, but somehow I never got along with them. Maybe it was because I preferred to be alone instead of taking part in their silly games and activities, loving my quiet, sitting by one of the large windows and look out at the city as I got lost in thoughts and daydreams. I spent hours thinking about the past and the years that seemed to have flown by since my father had died, and even though I was so young, I sometimes felt none of the girls would ever be as old as I was. Grief can do terrible things to an innocent mind indeed.

But the girls were nothing compared to La Carlotta. She had been the leading soprano for a couple of seasons, and she did not waste a moment to remind every single one of us that we were merely minions, unworthy of her presence. Her voice was indeed decent, but she was clearly overselling herself. There was, however, no other soprano available at that time, and so everyone, including the management, had to put up with her moods and caprices day after day.

It was during rehearsals for the new production of Hannibal when I accidentally burst into song a beat or two too early. I noticed it at once and immediately fell silent, but Carlotta had heard it, and instead of ignoring the little mishap and continuing her aria, she spun around, glaring at me with a deadly intensity.

"You-a!" she yelled in her alarmingly shrill voice and thick Italian accent. "You-a sing like ah limping sparrow, ha! And now stealing mi songs, ah no? I command-e you be silent, you talentless little toad!"

I fled to my dressing room, locking the door behind me before I fell to the floor in front of the mirror, crying bitter tears. Not believing in myself was one thing, but being humiliated in front of all those people was just too much. Who was _she _to tell me I could not sing? She who made everyone cover their ears as soon as she opened her mouth! It was then that I was convinced there could not possibly be an Angel of Music. As he lay dying, father had promised me he would send Little Lotte's angel to me so he would always be with me to inspire my voice. I only truly believed in the legend when I was a small child, but at this very moment, even its meaning died.

"Why did you lie to me, papa?" I cried out into the dark, my voice almost cracking from the sobs. "Why did you make me believe that one day the Angel of Music would visit me? Why did you not just tell me my voice is not good enough?"

At that time I did not know that Erik had been watching me for quite a while already. Neither was I aware of the fact that the glass that showed itself to me as a mirror was a window to him, nor that the bricks in this very room were hollow. When I first heard his voice – his alluring, beautiful, masculine, sensual voice as he softly sang an old, heathen Romany song – I was utterly stunned. I felt the dawning awareness of my body, how my skin turned into gooseflesh at this divine sound. I was trembling with joy and bewildered recognition, and within a split second the doubts I'd had were gone. There _was _an Angel of Music!

_And he had heard my prayers at last._

For the next three months, I lived in a dream of sweet music. I did not live, I did not exist between the evanescent hours in which he taught me. The time between the lessons became a meaningless void, a terrible torture, and I found myself staring at every clock I saw, willing time to pass faster. Like a drug addict who's shaking for his next dose of venom, I was desperate to hear his voice again. It was everything I had, the only thing that made me feel complete. My own voice had started to soar, and at times I was so surprised when I heard myself sing that I found it hard to believe it was actually me.

Nowadays I can't explain why I trusted it all so willingly, without questioning the existence of a supernatural being. I suppose I was so absorbed in an old promise coming true that I simply did not _want _it to be fake. And quite possibly I felt embarrassed, too. I was a young woman, I shouldn't be believing in stories like these anymore. But I did. However, it must have been my desperate longing for guidance and security that made me ignore or overlook the strict requirements of my angel. As the weeks passed, I was forbidden more and more small, everyday things, like spending time in the city with Meg, or stay up a little late to read a good book. The angel required absolute selfless devotion, or else I would never come even close to perfection. Little did I know that there was no angel, that there was a mortal man behind the mirror, a man who was obsessed with me and slowly tried to isolate me from everyone around me so I would belong only to him. He seemed to be the only one who understood my grief, my guilt, my loneliness, and slowly I became as dependent on him as I had been on my father.

When Erik finally showed himself to me after the triumphant gala night, at first I thought it was a dream come true. Like the arch angel Gabriel had appeared to the Holy Virgin Mary, the Angel of Music had finally found me worthy of seeing him in flesh and blood. I followed him blindly, enchanted by his voice and his dark, mysterious looks. But the moment I found out what was behind this mask, when I realised what roaring beast slept inside this man who had been so kind to me until I got too close, I suddenly woke up with a shrill, silent scream. Everytime I saw his face before my inner eye, I thought of Raoul with an almost shameful longing.

Handsome, gentle Raoul, who had been my first and only love. We were both children when we first met near Valerius' house in Perros-Guirec, Brittany. Father and I had decided to spend the summer there with our dear friend, attending various fairs and festivals. One day as I stood by the sea, a breeze unwrapped my silky scarf from around my neck and tossed it into the troubled waters. Young Raoul, who was on holiday with his aunt, ignored the cries of his governess and leapt forward to get it. He was soaked to the bones, as was my scarf, but he held it out to me with a bright smile.

After that, we saw each other and played together every day, because back then it did not matter that he was royal and that I was the daughter of a peasant. In the evenings, father would sit by the beach with us, play the fiddle and tell us dark stories of the North. Raoul, too, heard the story of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music, but when he came into my dressing room after the gala night, he only laughed at me when I told him I'd been visited by the Angel of Music at last.

Many years later, when he had just come of age, we met once more at Perros. I had tried to forget him, knowing I was unworthy, but Raoul had come looking for me. We sat in the garden of the house and talked all day, shyly, neither one of us possessing the courage to confess what our trembling hearts proclaimed loudly. It was only when he had to go that he suddenly pulled me to him in a moment of daring boldness, enveloping me in the downy wings of his gentle kiss.

"Are you dreaming again, mh?" I jumped a little when I heard his soft voice against my ear as he gently wrapped his arms around me from behind. Looking over my shoulder and out of the windows for a moment or two, Raoul eventually made me turn around so I faced him.

"Yes," I lied, not wanting to tell him that Erik had been on my mind.

"Why don't we sit by the fireplace for awhile?" he suggested when he realised I had goosebumps all over my arms. I wasn't cold, but I agreed nonetheless. There was no need to upset him by telling him the truth.

Raoul led the way to the living-room, where there was a beautiful open fireplace with a Persian carpet and two large, comfortable armchairs in front of it. When I was about to sit down, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him instead so I came to sit on his lap. I blushed a little, because Gilbert, our butler, had just entered the room to light the fire. He was discreet, of course, but I still felt just a little embarrassed. Public display of affection was typical for Raoul, though. He possessed a pure, playful and spontaneous kind of passion, and he was never afraid to show his feelings. I, on the other hand, was somewhat shy, possibly more 'Royal' about it than he was.

I don't know why I turned my head to look as Gilbert lit the fire, but it was then that I spottet something rather familiar. A snow white envelope with a blood red seal on its back. The envelope was now creased and the seal was broken, but I still recognised it at once.

"What is that?" I leaped forward and reached out, grabbing a hold of the paper just as it started to catch fire. I quickly put it out, then took a closer look at it. There was no doubt about it. This was a letter from Erik.

Raoul seemed genuinely sorry when I looked up at him in disbelief. Not once in the four years of our marriage had either of us deceived the other. We did not confess each and every little secret, that much was sure. But never before had he intercepted my messages. I was just stunned at first, then I felt anger flare inside me. Maybe for the first time in my life.

"Tell me this is _not _what it looks like!" I demanded harshly, hating how my voice was close to cracking because I was so irritated. And disappointed, too.

"I couldn't let it happen," he replied in a repentant, but also somewhat defensive tone of voice. "I wasn't going to let that monster near you again, ever."

"He's not a _monster, _Raoul!" I raised my hands in frustration, torn between annoyance and flattery because he was so determined to protect me. Right at that moment, I felt the strong urge to tell him I had grown up a little in the past four years, but that was beside the point.

"Have you forgotten what he did to you? To us?_" _He looked and sounded somewhat desperate, clenching his fists.

"No, I haven't," I answered with a sigh, knowing he had a point. I couldn't help feeling just a little intimidated by the letter even though I hadn't even read it yet.

"Didn't you see the girl he was with at the ball?" I reminded him. "Raoul, he has changed."

"If he has changed, why does he want to see you?" he retorted.

"He wants to see me?" I now opened the letter, reading through it carefully. It was a surprisingly short little letter, and it was true, Erik was asking me to meet him. _Dear Christine, please do come to the bridge that leads to the illuminated castle, down by the river. I shall await you there at sunset. I reassure you that I do not mean to harm you. All I ask for is a moment. I need to speak to you urgently. Yours, Erik._ Looking at the clock on the wall, I realised I only had another hour or so to get there.

"I have to go and see him," I stated, knowing I had made a mistake the moment I said it.

"No, you won't." I had never seen Raoul so serious, so determined to prevent me from doing something. There was nothing gentle, nothing polite in him at that very moment. I yelped when he grabbed me by the arm rather roughly and pulled me after him as he made his way to my room. "I've already sent him a note that you're not coming. I'm serious, Christine. I won't let him ruin us a second time."

"You cannot lock me in this room! Raoul!" I cried out as the door slammed shut behind me. But the key had already turned in the lock by the time I got back on my feet. Hitting the door once or twice in frustration, I finally sat down on the bed, tears of anger and desperation starting to escape my eyes. The terrible thing was that I understood his actions perfectly. If I were him, I might have done the same, and yet I knew he did not understand me in return. And even though it pained me, it was, yet again, understandable. But frustrating, too, because seeing Erik was something my heart told me I had to do. Four years ago, I had betrayed Erik, had slapped him hard across the face for feelings he couldn't fight, for desperation that was eating him up inside. I had punished him for having the same desires as any other human being, I had led him on by making him believe I did care for him in the same way as I felt for Raoul. I had used and abused his trust in me. I'd broken his heart – and thereby proved that he actually had one. He had _almost _ruined Raoul and me, that was true. I, on the other hand, had _definitely _ruined _him_. And now that I had the chance to undo some of the damage, to let go, I couldn't because I was a prisoner in my own house.

It must have been about half an hour later when I heard a soft knock on the door, then the key was turned again. Giselle, our cook, unlocked the door and peeked inside.

"I am preparing dinner now, Madame. Would you like soup for starters?"

Suddenly I had an idea. "Yes, please," I nodded. "Do come here, Giselle. And close the door."

She did as I asked, shutting the door behind her and then crossed the room, walking over to me. Bowing dutifully, she gave me a questioning look. "What is it, Madame?"

"You will do me a favour," I said as I got up. Opening a drawer, I searched it for a moment or so until I found what I had been looking for. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I would swallow a spoonful of this sleeping potion that Raoul didn't know about. I looked at the small flask for a while, then turned around and handed it to her. "The Vicomte's soup will have a special ingredient today."

"But Madame..." She looked hesitant.

"Do it," I commanded. "And don't tell anyone, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Good. You may go now. Leave the door ajar."

I sat back down after she had left, trying to appease my revolting conscience. Erik had once told me that sometimes you have to do a little evil to do a greater good. I just hoped it was true. All I could do now was wait...

* * *

**song credit:** No regrets, by Robbie Williams 


	12. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine - The last goodbye

_**Sometimes when you're hurting  
The hurt is blinding  
So being here, just you and I  
Feels like a confessional  
If I'm telling the truth tonight  
I'm looking for a way of saying goodybe**_

Christine was over an hour late, and it was only because of my knowledge of human nature that I bothered to wait for her. I knew for certain that she would not deny me, but at the very same time I could have bet my life on the fact that her beau was going to stir up rouble. I had purposely disregarded the note he'd sent me, knowing it wasn't worth the paper it was written on. Had I wanted to be impolite I could simply have kidnapped Christine, but I was better than that. Asking nicely had a lot more style, and if there were going to be problems, they wouldn't be mine to take care of. There was no doubt that she would sort it out herself, one way or the other. The moment we parted beneath the Opera Populaire, I had realised that – unfortunately - Christine was no longer the same innocent, naive girl I used to know. Despite having been a little out of touch with reality, she was a lot stronger than she looked, and quite possibly she had learned a lesson or two about wickedness when she was with me.

I had thought again and again about whether I should seek to see her once more, or if maybe wearing blinds was the better choice in this situation. Being face to face with her again after those years that had suddenly seemed like seconds... it was terrifying. There's nothing I cannot deal with when I'm prepared for it. But such a forceful, and above all unexpected, reminder of a painful lesson learned was nothing I ever would have imagined.

"You cannot destroy the love of others," Nadir had told me many years ago. The inalterable truth of this had infuriated and frustrated me beyond belief. Having to accept that no matter what I did, I would never succeed, having to declare defeat to something as volatile as emotions had been terrible for me. And it still was. The spiteful part of me had yet to come to understand why she loved the boy. He was disgustingly young and good-looking, ignorant and driven by the superficial beauty of things. He never would have noticed Christine if I hadn't made her who she was. She wouldn't have turned to me back then if he had been able to give her the guidance and security she needed, now would she? But of course she abandoned me once she had found her place in society. She'd taken everything I'd given her and handed it right over to him. She betrayed me for a man who did not deserve her at all.

Unfortunately, whenever I thought along those lines, a faint little voice from the back of my mind would cautiously make its presence known.

_Don't pretend you are not aware of how you played her, _this tiny traitor of the name of Conscience would whisper. And the more I'd try to block it out, the more those whispers would turn into a roar. _You took her feelings and used them against her. Abused them, abused her. Her name is not Madeleine, and you know that._

I sighed, remembering the many times I had looked at the faded photograph of my parents. My father, a dark-haired man of about the same age I was now, extremely good-looking and with gentle eyes that reflected the humour and generosity he must have possessed. Charles Durand, a master mason who died on one of his construction sites before I was born. My mother never told me a word about him, but I'd heard her weep many times at night. Sweet, innocent Madeleine Lefèvre whose exact reflection was Christine Daae. I have no other explanation for this striking resemblance except that no human face is entirely unique. Maybe certain bone structures were repeated every now and then without a blood tie. It wasn't even impossible that somewhere in the world, there was another cursed soul who looked just like me.

Childish, spoiled Madeleine Lefèvre who had loathed and denied me. Entrancing, wide-eyed Christine Daae who had yearned for me. Why could love not just be love, simple as a four letter word? Why could it not be black or white instead of a million shades of confusing and misleading grey instead? I did not want to believe I fell for it.

But I was done living in denial. I was sick of hurting, tired of getting caught in vicious circles. Christine and I were better off without one another, as hard as it was to admit it. But we needed to get rid of our baggage, deal with our unfinished business.

Finally, I spotted her hurrying towards me. She was dressed in a cape that went as far down as her ankles, a hood hiding the top half of her face. But I recognised the way she walked, the way she carried herself, just like I knew she would instantly spot me in a crowd. Her steps slowed down when she was about twenty feet away from me, coming closer at a slower pace as she lifted her hands to brush off the hood. I took a deep, silent breath as I closed the distance, bowing slightly as a greeting.

"You asked to see me, Erik," Christine stated in a soft tone of voice as she looked up at me. "So here I am."

I thoroughly studied her face for a moment or two, finding myself comparing it to the image of the past that I still carried around with me. She was beautiful as ever, but the childlike innocence was gone. The girl I had charmed was now a woman, and she had become a worthy opponent in this battle for peace of mind.

"You had problems getting here." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Is he going to be angry?"

She sighed and shrugged vaguely, then nodded a little. "I guess so. But that is none of your concern. You said you needed to speak to me. So, speak. We are here for a reason."

I couldn't help but swallow at the look in her eyes as she said this. It seemed as though she had read my mind, and for the first time in my life it did neither anger nor terrify me. Quite the contrary, I was almost relieved. This would be the last goodbye. Afterwards, there'd be no more ifs or whens, no more maybies and could-have-beens. What we could not say back then we would say now, and what neither of us saw when we should have seen it was crystal clear at this very moment. The pen that had been documenting our story was beginning to run out of ink. We needed to write the definite ending.

"It was never meant to be, was it?" Christine thought aloud. "It was merely despair and wishful thinking. And did we see it? No. We were always in the right place at the wrong time, or in the wrong place at the right time. Two shipwrecks on a fatal collision course."

"We got lost in a feverish dream...," I added, my voice fading to a whisper. It was painful and unspeakably scary to admit this. Facing the truth meant letting go of all the straws I had been holding on to so desperately. But destroying the slippery net of lies and wishes would not put me back on solid ground by any means. It would leave me falling freely, faster and faster, and I knew I'd have to find a way to stop the fall before it would be too late.

"Why did you betray me?" I demanded in a sudden impulse of anguish, even though I already knew the answer.

Christine was silent for a while, careful to phrase her reply the best she could.

"I cannot help the fact that humans strive for perfection in every aspect of life, Erik. Refinement is what we all long for. And you are no exception to that either, are you? I beg you, do not blame me because my first impression of you was based on deception. That was your doing, not mine. Shadow play, theatricality and make-believe lured me in easily, but you couldn't keep me like that forever. It was a dream, Erik. And dreams do end. We both know that your voice is your only true beauty. That's why you needed me. Your spirit entangled with mine, our voices combined... it was the only way to make people listen, wasn't it? To make people see the world through your eyes. But I could not live the life you desired for yourself, Erik. I have a heart and soul, too. And they long to be free, just as you do."

I turned away then, not wanting her to see me struggling to fight back the tears. It is hard to be told things you do not want to hear, but having to acknowledge that every single word is true is so much worse.

"I wanted what we could have had, not what we had," I murmured softly, stepping up to the parapet of the bridge and staring down into the black waters of the nightly river.

"Do you not have it already?" Christine asked gently as she came up beside me, looking at me through our reflections. I froze then, unsure whether she was implying what I thought she was. I feared facing her directly, so I looked back at her faint, effluent mirror image.

"I lost it," I admitted hoarsely, gripping the parapet. "I mistreated her... I thought she was turnining into you." Shuddering as I remembered yelling the same terrible insults at Illina as I had at Christine when she took off my mask, I lowered my head in shame. It had all seemed so familiar. The demasking, then the shattering of my frail faith and fragile heart in an act of seeming betrayal.

When I felt her hand on my arm, I flinched, but she held me there.

"Oh Erik," she sighed. "Poor, miserable Erik." Christine shook her head slowly. "How could you be so mistaken? Illina Panóva could never turn into me. She is too strong for that."

This time I did look directly at her, my eyes widening in surprise. Shock almost. "How come you know her?"

"There are enough poor souls on the streets of Prague who will gladly interrogate people and collect information for a handful of coins," she explained calmly. "I found an excellent spy who got to know her at an early age."

"Who is she then?" I gasped curiously, feeling terribly ashamed at the fact that I did not know much about Illina myself apart from her name.

"She's a survivor," said Christine. "A phoenix. She was the youngest of seven children, born into a peasant family cultivating a small piece of land near Wroclaw in Lower Silesia. Her mother died giving birth to her, which was regarded as an ill omen. When the crops failed for the third time in a row, her father had great difficulties paying the due taxes to the landlord, not to speak of getting his family through another winter. He had six strong, hard-working sons, but they had nothing to eat. And the little girl that could not yet help in any way, the girl who, above all, had killed his beloved wife, was just a weight around the neck. So he sold her to a group of travelling Sinti who were in the area at that time. She was only nine years old then. She travelled with them for almost two years, to Germany and France, but then her eyes got worse and she could not perform tricks any longer. So they abandoned her somewhere in Moravia. Somehow she managed to return to her parents' house, but of course she was no longer welcome. The money her father had made selling her off had saved the family, and he was unwilling to feed another hungry mouth, especially one that was useless for for working on the fields. So she ventured on until she got to Prague. She was a pretty girl, mind you, and she needed to eat. And so she started selling her body. After all, it had happened to her before."

I did not speak for a long time after Christine had finished. My mind was a blank, and I was shaking. My entire being was caught in a state of shock, and it took what seemed like forever until slowly thoughts and emotions cautiously returned to me. But still, I felt as though I had just been struck by lightning. The sheer similarity of our biographies was such a cruel twist of fate. If anyone had told me there was someone out there who was as unfortunate as I was, I wouldn't have believed a word. Now I was beyond compassion. In every fiber of my body and soul there now was pure empathy.

Suddenly it all made sense. Initially, I was alarmed. Since Illina had travelled France, then she surely spoke my native French, which meant I had disclosed information to her that nobody but Nadir had ever known of. All those pieces of music I had composed for my personal use only, the lyrics I had written, trying to process the anguish of my past into something beautiful... the poems I had crafted, thinking that if I used elegant, melodic words and stanza, my suffering would seem less severe... she could not have read them, of course. But hearing me mutter the words as I sat there, experimenting with what sounded best, must have been enough. And the conversation with Leroux that she had overheard...

Illina knew everything about me. She understood me perfectly, inside out.

"Erik, this woman loves you," Christine said, so softly that for a moment I almost thought it was just a whisper in the wind. "More than I ever could, and more than you may ever deserve. But I could see in her eyes how much she's hurting. If you don't put an end to her suffering, you will lose her. You have to make it alright again. Don't let her go."

"I won't," I gulped, taking a few shaky breaths to steady myself. Then I looked at Christine. "I need to go."

"I know."

I hesitated for a moment, then I leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you so much."

She smiled then, and shook her head. "Do not thank me, Erik. The least I could do was undo what I did to you. You do not get those opportunities very often in life. We're even now."

I swallowed when she spoke of undoing damage, knowing I still had a mission. There was one last chance that was waiting for me to take it, and I had to do it right away, or it would be gone forever.

"Be well," I said as I stepped away.

"You too, Erik." Her hand caressed my face for one last time, then she turned around and left. I watched her go, listening to my pounding heartbeat. Finally, the apathy that had taken a hold of me earlier on vanished, and I spun around, heading towards my home.

The one thing I had to do now was rebuild the bridges I had almost burned. One does not get those opportunities very often in life.

* * *

**song credit:** Confessional, by Mike-Leon Grosch 

**Sinti **are one of the five main groups of Roma people who often work as travelling showmen and circus folks.


	13. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten - End of the broken road

_**Every long lost dream led me to where you are  
Others who broke my heart**__**, they were like northern stars  
Pointing me on my way into your loving arms **_

The house lay quiet and in darkness when I returned, and I instinctively wondered whether I had come back in time or if it was too late. My hands were shaking as I took off my cape, and I took a slow, deep breath to brace myself before I entered the living-room. Running my fingers through my hair, I let out a quiet sigh as I made a feeble attempt at willing my mind and conscience into finding a solution to the problem I was about to face. I knew exactly _what_ I had to do, but I was at a loss for ideas regarding the _how_. This was going to be more than just a simple apology, which would have been a tough enough challenge to start with. Everything I'd longed for was at stake, and it was only because the thought of losing it all was so overpoweringly terrifying that I found the courage to stay and do something about it at all.

_What if it __goes wrong? _part of me questioned as I paced the room. _What if I cannot find the right words to make her believe me? _I only stopped in my tracks when I saw Illina sitting in the niche by the window, her face illuminated by the pale moonlight as the rest of her body was enveloped in a shadow.

"Illina?" I murmured softly after a moment of hesitation, taking a step in her direction. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and regular, but it wasn't until she didn't answer me that I could be fairly sure she was asleep.

I crossed the room and crouched in front of her, just watching her sleep for a while. She looked so beautiful and serene, and I couldn't help reaching out and brush my fingertips down her cheek, tracing the contours of her face. The contact must have tickled her senses; she shifted a bit and let out a soft, breathy groan as her eyelids slowly fluttered open.

"What...?" she mumbled sleepily, flinching slightly when I laid my index finger on her lips to silence her.

"C'est moi," _(It's me)_ I said softly, putting my assumptions to the test. As much as I wanted things to be alright between us, there still was this shadow of a doubt that would not rest until I knew it was all true.

"Erik?" She seemed a little surprised, her brows furrowing slightly. It almost seemed as though she didn't understand.

"Oui," _(yes)_ I answered, suddenly scared to death that I had been wrong. "Tu ne m'as jamais dit que tu parles le français." _(you never told me you spoke French)_

For a second or two, there was silence. "Tu ne m'as jamais demandé," _(you never asked me)_ she then replied, her voice barely a whisper.

It was then that my world was shattered and rebuilt within a moment. I panted, cupping Illina's face in my hands as I desperately tried not to cry. It had been years since I'd last allowed the tears to flow, and it had made me feel so helpless that I'd been avoiding it at all costs. But this time they weren't tears of sadness or desperation that longed for freedom. For the first time in my life I felt so completely relieved that any other emotion simply did not seem to do my feelings justice, and eventually I lost the battle.

"Je suis désolé," _(I'm sorry_) I sobbed, leaning my forehead against hers as I clutched her face. "Pour la chaque fois que je t'ai fait mal, je suis profondément désolé." _(for each time I hurt you, I'm profoundly sorry) _

Before I knew it, her lips were on mine, and she kissed me with such a heartbreaking tenderness that I couldn't help but shiver inside. "Je le sais," _(I know that) _she whispered between kisses, "Je l'ai attendu tout le temps. Mais j'ai craint que tu ne puisses jamais te le rendre compte." _(I hoped for it all the time. But I feared that you may never realise that.)_

"Moi aussi," _(me too) _I breathed, knowing how close I'd been to losing her. I picked her up, cradling her in my arms as I carried her to my bedroom.

It had been far too long since I had last been in here with her, and I swallowed as I lay her down on the bed, letting my eyes roam over her. She looked divine, bathed in the faint silver light of the moon while her thin nightgown only covered the bare necessities, and yet it was the gentle and loving smile on her face that caused my heart to leap within my chest. She, too, had begun to cry, but they were happy tears, and I kissed them all away as I pulled her to me. She came to sit on my lap, straddling my waist and sliding her arms around my neck as I wrapped my arms around her.

We kissed again, and when at first I tasted salt I couldn't tell if it were the remains of her tears or mine, but it didn't matter. Slowly but surely the bitter flavour was replaced by the unmistakable sweet savour of her soft lips against my own, and I moved one of my hands to the nape of her neck, playing with the soft hair there as I pulled her even closer to me to deepen the kiss. The intoxicating feel and taste of her lips sent thrills down my spine, and I kissed her passionately in a broken moan, tracing the line between her lips, coaxing her to let me in already. I needed to breathe her, to taste and feel her until every fibre of my body would be coated with her exquisite nearness. I shuddered when I heard her gasp in pleasure and approval, and when she finally responded to me, matching me with the same fervent ardour, I let out a low growl as pure and unrestrained desire overtook me. Soon my breath was coming in ragged, shallow pants, and I broke the kiss in dire need of oxygen, bending down and covering the sensitive skin of her neck in kisses, nipping it occasionally. Not ceasing my ministrations until she whimpered in delight, I undid the ribbon of her nightdress and slid the garment off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

Feeling her silky skin beneath my hands, so warm and soft and giving off a sweet scent that instantly filled my head, I could hardly contain myself. Nimble fingers rid me of my mask and shirt, skimming over my neck, shoulders and chest, triggering hot tingling sensations everywhere they touched. Running my hands down her back, I pressed her to me, skin on skin, letting out a moan against the hollow of her throat.

"Je t'aime," _(I love you_) I whispered as I ran my hands along her curvaceous thighs, my thumbs making small circles on the sensitive flesh. "Reste avec moi, pour tojours. Je ne peux pas continuer sans toi." _(Stay with me, forever. I cannot go on without you)_

"Moi non plus", _(me neither) _she breathed, cupping my face tenderly in her hands. I looked at her, admiring her flawless beauty, and then she leaned in, brushing her lips against mine. "Je dois être un avec toi," _(I need to be one with you) _she murmured, kissing me again.

It was all the encouragement I needed. My whole body shook in anticipation as I lay her down, so overwhelmed knowing that she had not only forgiven me but also wanted me with her. And the moment when our flesh became one flesh, a part of me died. The hateful, lonesome, suspicious self that had made me hate life and the people in it stopped existing. Illina's love finally broke the chains of despair and misery that had kept me down since the day I was born, enveloping me in comfort and security.

I was home.

* * *

**song credit:** Bless the broken road, by Rascal Flatts 


	14. Illina's Interlude

Final Interlude - Farewell

_**It felt like springtime on this February morning  
In the courtyard birds were singing your praise  
I'm still recalling things you said to make me feel alright  
I carry them with me today**_

_**Now as I lay me down to sleep  
This I pray  
That you will hold me dear  
Though I'm far away  
I'll whisper your name into the sky  
And I will wake up happy**_

In 1949, I buried my husband.

He died peacefully in his sleep shortly after the sun had ascended her bright blue throne. Spring was almost on its way, but that beautiful and quiet February morning had been destined to be Erik's last. He had been healthy for a man of his age, and even though he had indeed developed one rather peculiar habit or another, he had been in complete control of his mind until the very moment he drew his final breath. But still, his death was no surprise to me. Over the last few months his strength had diminished slowly, but steadily. Like a candle whose light becomes dimmer as it gradually burns down, I could tell his time would soon be coming to an end. At first I stubbornly refused to believe it. Seeing how he was seventeen years older than me, it was only natural that he was going to pass away before me. But the thought of being without him scared me just too much to make my peace with it. After a while, however, I realised that the only sensible thing to do in my situation was enjoying every moment of still having him by my side instead of wasting even a second by dreading the moment I would have to let him go.

"_Grandma?" __Charles' voice was very quiet as he tugged at my sleeve. He was only seven years old, the son of my youngest daughter. Erik had been very fond of him because even though he was still little, he possessed a rare musical talent. Not only could he play the piano extremely well for a child of his age, he also had an astonishingly extensive vocabulary and combined words into phrases of sheer perfection and beauty. In spite of his declining strength, Erik had kept his daily lessons up until the very last day before he went. He'd insisted that Charles could have challenged Mozart had they lived in the same century, convinced that one day he would write an opera that would put The Magic Flute to shame. Needless to say that the boy adored him, and that he was devastated when he heard his beloved grandfather would never come back._

"_Yes?" I answered, giving his tiny hand a gentle squeeze when he slipped it into mine. I felt a bit guilty for bringing him with me to the cemetery, knowing how sad it would make him. But he had refused to stay at home and wait for me as I made my daily visit to Erik's grave, as I had done for almost two months now. _

"_I need to take care of you, grandma," he'd said. "I promised I would." I hadn't been sure what exactly he meant. The thought that maybe he had once made an innocent promise to his grandfather and now wanted to keep it was very touching. _

"_Is grandpa in heaven now?" __Charles asked softly as he sniffled._

"_I don't know if there really is a heaven, dear," I replied thoughtfully after a pause. "Erik did not believe in God or religion. So even if there is a heaven, he may not want to be there."_

"_But..." __I could tell from his tone of voice that he was confused. And maybe somewhat scared, too. "But if there's no heaven, then where is he now?"_

_I smiled then, a wave of love and warmth washing over me. "Right here, __Charles," I said as my hand touched the left side of my chest, just below my collarbone. "Right here, in my heart."_

Erik and I had been married for almost half a century, and even though we did have our fair share of disagreements and quarrels, overall we had led a successful marriage. I am a little hesitant to say it was a 'happy' marriage because very often it was nothing but hard and arduous work. At times it was unspeakably difficult and draining to live and put up with Erik. Without any doubt, there was indescribable beauty in his soul, but there also was a lot of pain. Every ounce of love and gentleness was outweighed by a pound of wrath and anguish that was rooted so deep within him that not even I could ever fully remove that poisonous thorn. Fortunately, I was never foolish enough to believe that affection is enough to conquer all sorts of problems that will come your way. When I married Erik, I was fully aware that I had just accepted the strenuous task of channelling his sometimes overpowering dark side into more healthy, more natural human emotions. Erik had a rare talent of finding accusations and insults where there weren't any, and thus I quickly learned to choose my words wisely whenever I talked to him, leaving absolutely no room for any ambiguous interpretations. Nevertheless, I did not grovel. I stood up to him when necessary, making it clear that even though I loved him with all my heart and soul, there was a line he must not cross. Erik knew that very well, and yet he put a toe across it from time to time, which brought us dangerously close to the point where I might have walked away from him. But he never stepped over it. As frustrating as everything was at times, it was all worthwhile the moment he held me and whispered sweet words of love in my ear. I knew he meant it.

Even after many years had passed, our story still seemed like a mystery to me. I kept wondering when and how I had fallen in love with him. It was more than gratitude because he'd saved me and gotten me off the streets. It was more than compassion because of our similar biographies. It was more than a feeling of duty because he was the father of my then unborn child. I had let my guard down the moment he'd sung Lazaro to sleep, knowing that if my son trusted him, I could, too. But that kiss had not come out of nowhere. Each time I had lain with him before, every time I had denied him my kiss, my defences had crumbled just a little. Whenever he'd touched me, bits and pieces of the ice around my heart had melted. It was then that I learned that when you give yourself to a person, your body makes a promise. That promise may not always be kept, but opening yourself up to a stranger, both mentally and physically, is a spiritual act. We both longed for love so desperately, and when we found it our souls entwined, forever to be inseparable. It is no coincidence that the unity of man and woman is called making love. Only together can they be complete. And from this union emerges new life. Because to live means to love.

I gave birth to eight children, five boys and three girls. Each one of them was the fruit of our love and passion, and we were most fortunate that all of them lived. Apart from me, the little ones were all that truly mattered to Erik. Even his music had to concede its position of importance on behalf of his children. Not that he did not care about it anymore. He sang them to sleep at night and if one of them happened to take an interest in it, he would gladly encourage it. Several of his compositions would even be dedicated to them, or to me. But he had not forgotten that music had been his companion while he was alone, and now that there was us, things were different. I could not look after the little ones once they discovered that their thin, O-shaped legs were made for a purpose, namely waddling from place to place a lot faster than you'd ever think. Erik sure was an agile specimen, but even he had trouble following them from time to time. Nonetheless he enjoyed himself tremendously, never losing his patience with his children.

Erik kept working as an architect, and he became so successful that he eventually opened his own business. He kept it small with only five hand-picked employés and one apprentice at a time, fiercely unwilling to cede even a little responsibility to anyone. He was strict with those who worked for him, but he was always fair. He was also slightly obsessed with his assignments, working on even the tiniest flaw of design or construction until it was right. Sometimes I worried a little, but I knew that only perfection was ever good enough for him. And despite having to put up with his moods when sometimes things did not go according to plan, it was great to experience him in a satisfied mood when his latest masterpiece was accomplished. It was usually then that the nights were most unforgettable.

In 1904, we moved to England. A year before that, Rudolf von Habsburg had introduced us to Richard Clairemont-Fleur and his wife Emily at the annual Masquerade Ball at the Státní Opera. The Clairemont-Fleur family tree, so I later found out, could be traced back to the Capetian Dynasty that had ended with the death of king Charles the Fair of France in 1328. The family still possessed great wealth and influence, though, and Richard insisted on having their summer residence in Wales built by Erik. He was rather reluctant at first, and seeing how we were financially rather well off at that time, there wasn't really any need to take on a new assignment so soon. But Erik had a restless spirit, and I had noticed that he'd been longing for a change for a while. So when Clairemont-Fleur offered to pay him with a beautiful little estate in Hertfordshire instead of money, he agreed.

"_Let's go," I said to __Charles when I felt the first drops of rain fall. I did not necessarily mind the clammy weather, of which there was plenty in England. I loved sitting by the window and inhale the delicious smell of clean air and wet grass as I listened to the sound of the falling rain. But I wasn't getting any younger, and I could most certainly do without an inflammation of the lungs._

"_I think there must be a heaven," he thought aloud as we headed back to our house._

"_And what makes you believe that?" I asked curiously._

"_The angels are shedding tears of joy, grandma, " Charles replied with a sweet seriousness that took my breath away. "I think they're glad to have grandpa back."_

_Tears filled my eyes as I bit my lip in an attempt to stop them, nodding my head slowly. "You're not wrong," I managed to say. _

"_Are you alright?" I __smiled weakly when I heard the concern in his voice._

"_Yes, I'm fine," I reassured him. "It's just..."_

"_I miss him, too," Charles sighed sadly. _

I knew I would never stop missing Erik for as long as I lived. Despite his obvious flaws, he had been the one who'd held my hand through all these years, the one who'd guided and protected me. Never before had I felt so secure, and now that he was gone I couldn't help feeling a little afraid sometimes. But I found new heart each time I thought of him. He'd stood by me when people found out who I was and where I came from, making sure the nasty gossip stopped before it really started. He had been my eyes when we'd go for our daily walks in the afternoon, describing every detail of the landscape to me as we strolled through the countryside until I knew our land like the pocket of my coat. There was a wooden bench by a shallow creek near the forest, where we used to sit. Sometimes we'd talk about happy and serious matters alike. It was always there that I told him there would be a new addition to the family. But very often we'd just be silent and enjoy each other's nearness as we held one another. I could have stayed forever like that, wrapped up in his strong arms. Erik had given me back my faith in the beauty of life, and I was so unspeakably grateful for each day he'd given me. Even though I knew that his face was blemished, I never found myself wondering or imagining what it looked like. Why would I? It did not matter to me. Not only can beggars like me not be choosers. But what is even more important is that physical beauty is temporary. It is only a matter of time until everyone looks the same. Sooner or later, we'll all be ugly. I did not distinguish between a flawy and a faultless side of Erik. To me he was perfect as a whole. The only difference was that on one side his skin was perfectly smooth, and on the other side it was a little scarred and rough. But it was warm and soft either way, and I loved touching him and being close to him.

"Do not fear for me," he murmured as the hourglass got emptier by the second. Right at that very moment, I would have traded the world for a glimpse of him. A king's ransom for one moment of being able to look into his eyes. But all I could do was cup his face gently as I forced back the tears. I didn't want him to remember a sad face as the last thing he'd see on this earth.

"I'm not afraid," he whispered. "Death is like putting out a candle in the sunlight. It's like taking off a tight shoe. My only regret is that this will be so much harder for you than it will be for me. You gave me peace after all those years I spent hiding and on the run. Thank you. Thank you for loving me."

Then he placed his hand atop my own, being too weak to squeeze it even most gently. "I will see you again, Illina," he whispered, struggling to give me one last loving smile. I could not see it, of course. But I could tell from his tone of voice. "I'll be waiting for you on the other side."

My heart stopped for a moment then. This was finally it. He was saying goodbye. "I love you, Erik," I breathed, kissing his forehead gently. He barely found the strength to utter the words back to me, but feeling him turn his head and leaning into my caress was all the reassurance I could have hoped for. I sat with him for the next hour, staying with him as he left this world and moved on to the next. When he was gone, I fled from the room, running to my chamber and locking the door behind me.

And then I cried as I'd never cried in my life.

_The rain got heavier as we walked back, and before we even reached the little village near our land, it was pouring down as though heaven had opened all its gates. Charles and I didn't bother running for shelter. We were already soaked to the bones, so it was useless. I shivered as we kept moving, knowing I was being insensitive. But I didn't care. __Raising my head to the sky, a melancholy smile overtook my features. Yes, I would see Erik again. Quite possibly very soon._

* * *

**song credit:** As I lay me down, by Sophie B. Hawkins 


	15. Epilogue

Epilogue – Requiem for a lonely heart

**Her Majesty's Theatre****, London 1986**

"_... it's over now, the music of the night."_

For a second there was silence when the lights went out, leaving the sold-out theatre to being engulfed by a pitch black darkness. Then the spotlight was on Sarah, Michael and Steve again as they came back on stage with the rest of the cast to enjoy the well-deserved praise. Every single person in the audience was impressed to no end. People rose from their seats for standing ovations, and those who knew how to whistle did so. Roaring applause mixed with loud demands for an encore. Within a split second it was beyond obvious that The Phantom of the Opera was a glamourous triumph in every way possible, and that its reputation and excitement would make it a global phenomenon.

I leaned back in my seat, nodding to myself with a satisfied smile on my face. Everything had worked out absolutely brilliantly. The singing, the acting and the music had been sublime, the special effects and the lighting all perfectly timed. All those exhausting and nerve-racking rehearsals had finally paid off. We had created a masterpiece of illusion, a milestone of entertainment.

I had watched Michael very closely, a little uneasy at first because I was naturally biassed. When you know the one and only original Phantom, even if he only exists as a childhood memory and on faded photographs, it's going to take a minor miracle to convince you that someone else can pull off his character and emotions in a way that would do Erik justice. There was no doubt that his voice had been unique in both style and brilliance, and therefore I hadn't had any great expectations. I'd merely hoped it wouldn't be a complete disaster. But Michael's performance had been terrific, putting a definite end to my worries.

"Congratulations!" Andrew woke me from my little reverie when he yelled into my ear, a winner's grin all over his face. "Aren't we brilliant?" He laughed and nudged me.

I chucked and nodded my head, mouthing a "likewise" and "sure we are" before going back to simply enjoying the moment as the applause still went on. Nobody ever knew who I really was. My mother had given up her maiden name when she married my father, a pianist and violinist of the name of James Hart, and thus all obvious genealogical connections to my grandfather had been lost. If someone had bothered to dig up my family tree and do some research, they may have found out that I am related to the eccentric famous architect Erik Le Mônfaté who is mentioned in the thank yous of the Leroux novel. But why would anyone want to do that? I have no criminal record, the name of Charles Hart isn't that extremely interesting as to spark anyone's curiosity, and I'd never been the type to bask in my grandfather's glory. My CV truthfully states that I was born in London, educated at Robinson College in Cambridge, and my career achievements include several pieces of music for BBC productions, operas and solo songs. I never talked much about my family at work. It was regarded as showing professionalism, and people accepted my reserved attitude without asking too many questions.

It was hard to say how I felt right then and there, although 'bittersweet' comes quite close. Sweet because I had written the lyrics of a musical that had the potential of becoming the most successful stage show of all times. Bitter because only the first half of the story had been told. There was so much more love, an abundance of drama and happiness yet to come, but I knew I had to keep the history of my family a secret, or the myth of the Phantom would be destroyed. Besides, happy endings generally bore the audience. Sad endings are much more memorable. I suppose everyone prefers tragedy over happiness as long as his own life isn't affected.

There was, however, one thing I knew for sure, and for as long as I'd live, I'd swore to never write a line that goes "I cannot live without you". It had become such an empty phrase with pop music and all, and yet hardly anyone could actually claim to have experienced its true meaning. It was Erik and Illina who defined what it really meant. My grandfather had been dead for only three months when my grandmother followed him.

"I dreamed of Erik last night," she'd said one morning when my mother and I visited her, a gentle smile on her face. "He said he missed me." When the sun rose the next day, she did not wake up again. But a hint of that very same smile was still playing on her lips when we found her, almost as though she'd wanted to reassure us it was alright. I've never really been the type to take comfort in thoughts of morbid romance, but for some reason there was no way in hell to convince me they weren't together now.

And as I sat there, torn between present, past and future, I felt entirely at ease for maybe the first time in my life. It had been a very long time, but I still remembered every single word Erik ever said to me about music. Several of my uncles, aunts, siblings and cousins had taken an interest in it, and yet - as arrogant as it may sound - none of them ever was as good as I was. Perhaps it had been my task, my destiny, to keep the legend alive. And now that I'd successfully completed my mission, I was pleased.

Only I knew that The Phantom of the Opera was merely the prelude of a remarkable man's steep and thorny way to happiness. It was a great start, but the true life-changing moments were even more compelling. It was the story which was left untold that had been the requiem for a lonely heart.

_Yes, _I thought to myself, _grandpa would have been proud._

**THE END.**


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